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THREE PLAYS 



THREE PLAYS 

By W. E. >HENLEY and 
Rtn. STEVENSON 



DEACON BRODIE 

BEAU AUSTIN 
ADMIRAL GUINEA 



t 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1892 



f-o 



/y^6^/''/> 






Copyright, 1892, by 
W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson 

[AU rights reserved'\ 



l^-Z^ofj 



TROW DIRECTORY 

PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY 

NEW YORK 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DEACON BRODIE . . . . i 

BEAU AUSTIN m 

ADMIRAL GUINEA . . . .177 



DEACON BRODIE 
OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 

A MELODRAMA 

IN FIVE ACTS AND 

EIGHT TABLEAUX 



PERSONS REPRESENTED 

William Brodie. Deacon of the Wrights, Housebreaker and Master 

Carpenter. 
Old Brodie, the Deacon's Father. 

William Lawson, Procurator-Fiscal, the Deacon's Uncle. 
Andrew Ainslie, \ 

Humphrey Moore, ,- Robbers in the Deacon's gang. 
George Smith, ) 

C.-VPTAIN Rivers, an English Highwayman. 
Hunt, a Bow Street Runner. 
A Doctor. 
Walter Leslie. 

Mary Brodie, the Deacon's Sister. 
Jean W.\tt, the Deacon's Mistress. 

Vag.^bonds, Officers of the Watch, Men-serv^'nts. 

The Scene is laid in Edinburgh. The Time is towards the close of 

the Eighteenth Century. The action, some fifty hours 

long, begins at eight p.m. on Saturday and 

ends before midnight on Monday 



Note. — Passages suggested /or omissioti in representation are 
enclosed in square brackets, thus [ ]. 



SYNOPSIS OF ACTS AND TABLEAUX 
ACT I. 

TABLEAU I The Double Life. 

TABLEAU n Hunt the Runner. 

TABLEAU III Mother Clarke's. 

ACT II. 
TABLEAU IV Evil and Good. 

ACT III. 

TABLEAU V King's Evidence. 

TABLEAU VI. ....... . Unmasked. 

ACT IV. 
TABLEAU VII. The Robbery. 

ACT V. 
TABLE.w VIII The Open Door. 



LONDON: PRINCE'S THEATRE 



2d July 18S4 



Deacon Brodie, 
Walter Leslie, 
William Lawson, 
Andrew Ainslie, 
Humphrey Moore 
George Smith, 
Hunt, 

Old Brodie, . 
Captain Rivers, 
Mary Brodie, 
Jean Watt, . 



Mr. E. J. Henley. 

Mr. Charles Cartwright. 

Mr. John Maclean. 

Mr. Fred. Desmond. 

Mr. Edmund Grace. 

Mr. Julian Cross. 

Mr. Hubert Akhurst 

Mr. A. Knight. 

Mr. Brandon Thomas. 

Miss Lizzie Williams. 

Miss Minnie Bell. 



Deacon Brodie, 
Walter Leslie, 
William Lawson, 

Andrew Ainslie, 

Humphrey Moore, 

George Smith, 

Hunt, 

Captain Rh-ers, 

Mary Brodie, 

Jean Watt, . 



MONTREAL 
26/// September 1SS7 



Mr. E. J. Henley. 

Mr. Graham Stewart. 
Mr. Edmund Lyons. 
Mr. Fred. Desmond. 
Mr. Edmund Grace. 
Mr. Horatio Saker. 
Mr. Henry Vernon. 
Mr. Bruce Philips. 
Miss Annie Robe. 
Miss Carrie Coote. 



ACT I 

TABLEAU I 
The Double Life 

The Stage represents a room in the Deacon! s house, furnished partly 

as a sitting-, partly as a bed-room, in the style of a7i eAsy burgess of 

about 1780. C, a door ; L. C, a second and sAialler door ; R. C, 

practicable ivindoiu ; L., alcove, supposed to contain bed; at the 

back, a clothes-press and a corner cupboard containing bottles, etc. 

Mary Brodie at needle-mork ; Old Brodik, a paralytic, 

in wheeled chair, at the fireside, L. 

SCENE I 

To these Leslie, C. 

Leslie. May I come in, ALiry? I 

Mary. Why not ? j 

Leslie. I scarce knew where to find you. c , 

Mary. The dad and I must have a corner, must 

we not ? So when my brother's friends are in the 

parlour he allows us to sit in his room. 'Tis a great 

favour, I can tell you ; the place is sacred. 

Leslie. Are you sure that ' sacred ' is strong 

enough ? 

Mary. You are satirical ! 

I 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I Leslie. I ? And with regard to the Deacon ? 



I 

Sc. I 



Beheve me, I am not so ill-advised. You have 
trained me well, and I feel by him as solemnly as 
a true-born Brodie. 

Mary. And now you are impertinent ! Do you 
mean to go any further ? We are a fighting race, we 
Brodies. Oh, you may laugh, sir ! But 'tis no child's 
play to jest us on our Deacon, or, for that matter, on 
our Deacon's chamber either. It was his father's 
before him ; he works in it by day and sleeps in it by 
night ; and scarce anything it contains but is the 
labour of his hands. Do you see this table, Walter ? 
He made it while he was yet a 'prentice. I remember 
how I used to sit and watch him at his work. It 
would be grand, I thought, to be able to do as he did, 
and handle edge-tools without cutting my fingers, and 
getting my ears pulled for a meddlesome minx ! He 
used to give me his mallet to keep and his nails to 
hold ; and didn't I fly when he called for them ! and 
wasn't I proud to be ordered about with them ! And 
then, you know, there is the tall cabinet yonder ; that 
it was that proved him the first of Edinburgh joiners, 
and worthy to be their Deacon and their head. And 
the father's chair, and the sister's workbox, and the 
dear dead mother's footstool — what are they all but 
proofs of the Deacon's skill, and tokens of the 
Deacon's care for those about him ? 

Leslie. I am all penitence. Forgive me this last 
time, and I promise you I never will again. 

2 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Mary. Candidly, now, do you think you deserve ] 

forgiveness ? j 

Leslie. Candidly, I do not. Cp 

Mary. Then I suppose you must have it. What 
have you done with Willie and my uncle ? 

Leslie. I left them talking deeply. The dear old 
Procurator has not much thought just now for any- 
thing but those mysterious burglaries 

Mary. I know ! 

Leslie. Still, all of him that is not magistrate and 
official is politician and citizen ; and he has been 
striving his hardest to undermine the Deacon's prin- 
ciples, and win the Deacon's vote and interest. 

Mary. They are worth having, are they not ? 

Leslie. The Procurator seems to think that hav- 
ing them makes the difference between winning and 
losing. 

Mary. Did he say so ? You may rely upon it that 
he knows. There are not many in Edinburgh who 
can niatch with our Will. 

Leslie. There shall be as many as you please, and 
not one more. 

Mary. How I should like to have heard you ! 
What did uncle say? Did he speak of the Town 
Council again ? Did he tell Will what a wonderful 
Bailie he would make ? O why did you come away ? 

Leslie. I could not pretend to listen any longer. 
The election is months off yet ; and if it were not — if 
it were tramping upstairs this moment — drums, flags, 

3 



Sc. I 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I cockades, guineas, candidates, and all! — how should 

y I care for it ? What are Whig and Tory to me ? 

Mary. O fie on you ! It is for every man to concern 
himself in the common weal. Mr. Leslie— Leslie of 
the Craig ! — should know that much at least. 

Leslie. And be a politician like the Deacon ? All 
in good time, but not now. I hearkened while I 
could, and when I could no more I slipped out and 
followed my heart. I hoped I should be welcome. 

Mary. I suppose you mean to be unkind. 

Leslie. Tit for tat. Did you not ask me why I 
came away ? And is it usual for a young lady to say 
' Mr.' to the man she means to marry ? 

Mary. That is for the young lady to decide, sir. 

Leslie. And against that judgment there shall be 
no appeal ? 

Mary. O, if you mean to argue ! 

Leslie. I do not mean to argue. I ani content to 
love and be loved. I think I am the hapi3iest man in 
the world. 

Mary. That is as it should be ; for I am the 
happiest girl. 

Leslie. Why not say the happiest wife ? I have 
your word, and you have mine. Is not that enough ? 

Mary. Have you so soon forgotten ? Did I not 
tell you how it must be as my brother wills ? I can 
do only as he bids me. 

Leslie. Then you have not spoken as you prom- 
ised ? 

4 



Sc. I 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Mary. I have been too happy to speak. I 

Leslie. I am his friend. Precious as you are, he j 

will trust you to me. He has but to know how I love 
you, Mary, and how your life is all in your love of 
me, to give us his blessing with a full heart. 

Mary. I am sure of him. It is that which 
makes my happiness complete. Even to our mar- 
riage I should find it hard to say ' Yes ' when he 
said ' No.' 

Leslie. Your father is trying to speak. I'll wager 
he echoes you. 

Mary {to Old Brodie). My poor dearie ! Do 
you want to say anything to me ? No ? Is it to Mr. 
Leslie, then ? 

Leslie. I am listening, Mr. Brodie. 

Mary. What is it, daddie ? 

Old Brodie. My son — the Deacon — Deacon 
Brodie — the first at school. 

Leslie. I know it, Mr. Brodie. Was I not the last 
in the same class ? {To Mary.) But he seems to 
have forgotten us. 

Mary. O yes ! his mind is wellnigh gone. He 
will sit for hours as you see him, and never speak nor 
stir but at the touch of Will's hand or the sound of 
Will's name. 

Leslie. It is so good to sit beside you. By and by 
it will be always like this. You will not let me speak 
to the Deacon ? You are fast set upon speaking 
yourself? I could be so eloquent, Mary — I would 

5 



Sc. I 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I touch him. I cannot tell you how I fear to trust my 

J happiness to any one else — even to you ! 

Mary. He must hear of my good fortune from 
none but me. And besides, you do not understand. 
We are not like families, we Brodies. We are so 
clannish, we hold so close together. 

Leslie. You Brodies, and your Deacon ! 

Old Brodie. Deacon of his craft, sir — Deacon of 
the Wrights — my son ! If his mother — his mother — 
had but lived to see ! 

Mary. You hear how he runs on. A word about 
my brother and he catches it. 'Tis as if he were 
awake in his poor blind way to all the Deacon's care 
for him and all the Deacon's kindness to me. I 
believe he only lives in the thought of the Deacon. 
There, it is not so long since I was one with him. 
But indeed I think we are all Deacon-mad, we 
Brodies. Are we not, daddie dear ? 

Brodie {witJwiit, and entering). You are a mighty 
magistrate, Procurator, but you seem to have met 
your match. 

SCENE II 

To these, Brodie and Lawson 

Sc. 2 Mary (curtseying). So, uncle ! you have honoured 
us at last. 

Lawson. Quamprimum, my dear, quamprimum. 

Brodie. Well, father, do you know me ? {He sits 
beside ]iis father and takes his hand.) 

6 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

[Old Brodie. William — ay — Deacon. Greater I 

man — than — his father. j 

Brodie. You see, Procurator, the news is as fresh c 
to him as it was five years ago. He was struck down 
before he got the Deaconship, and lives his lost life 
in mine. 

Lawson. Ay, I mind. He was aye ettling after a 
bit handle to his naine. He was kind of hurt when 
first they made me Procurator.] 

Mary. And what have you been talking of ? 

Lawson. Just o' thae robberies, Mary. Baith as 
a burgher and a Crown offeecial, I tak'^the maist 
absorbing interest in thae robberies. 

Leslie. Egad, Procurator, and so do I. 

Brodie (ivi^A a quick look at Leslie). A dilet- 
tante interest, doubtless ! See what it is to be 
idle. 

Leslie. Faith, Brodie, I hardly know how to 
style it. 

Brodie. At any rate, 'tis not the interest of a vic- 
tim, or we should certainly have known of it before ; 
nor a practical tool-mongering interest, like my own ; 
nor an interest professional and official, like the Proc- 
urator's. You can answer for that, I suppose ? 

Leslie. I think I can ; if for no more. It's an 
interest of my own, you see, and is best described as 
indescribable, and of no manner of moment to any- 
body. [It will take no hurt if we put off its discussion 
till a month of Sundays.] 

7 



Sc. 2 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I Brodie. You are more fortunate than you deserve. 

J What do you say, Procurator ? 

Lawson. Ay is he ! There's no a house in Edin- 
burgh safe. The law is clean helpless, clean helpless ! 
A week syne it was auld Andra Simpson's in the 
Lawnmarket. Then, naething would set the cata- 
marans but to forgather privily wi' the Provost's ain 
butler, and tak' unto themselves the Provost's ain 
plate. And the day, information was laid before me 
offeecially that the limmers had made infraction, 
vi et ciaiH, into Leddy Mar'get Dalziel's, and left her 
leddyship wi' no sae muckle's a spune to sup her 
parritch wi'. It's unbelievable, it's awful, it's anti- 
christian ! 

Mary. If you only knew them, uncle, what an 
example you would make ! But tell me, is it not 
strange that men should dare such things, in the 
midst of a city, and nothing, nothing be known of 
them — nothing at all ? 

Leslie. Little, indeed! But we do know that 
there are several in the gang, and that one at least 
is an unrivalled workman. 

Lawson. Ye're right, sir ; ye're vera right, Mr. 
Leslie. It had been deponed to me offeecially that 
no a tradesman — no the Deacon here himsel' — could 
have made a cleaner job wi' Andra Simpson's shut- 
ters. And as for the lock o' the bank — but that's 
an auld sang. 

Brodie. I think you believe too much, Procurator. 



I 

Sc. 2 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Rumour's an ignorant jade, I tell you. I've had occa- J 

sion to see some little of their handiwork — broken 
cabinets, broken shutters, broken doors — and I find 
them bunglers. Why, I could do it better myself ! 

Leslie. Gad, Brodie, you and I might go into 
partnership. I back myself to watch outside, and I 
suppose you could do the work of skill within ? 

Brodie. An opposition company ? Leslie, your 
mind is full of good things. Suppose we begin to- 
night, and give the Procurator's house the honours 
of our innocence ? 

Mary. You could do anything, you twd ! 

Lawson. Onyway, Deacon, ye'd put your ill-gotten 
gains to a right use ; they might come by the wind 
but they wouldna gang wi' the water ; and that's aye 
a solatium, as we say. If I am to be robbit, I would 
like to be robbit wi' decent folk ; and no think o' my 
bonnie clean siller dirling among jads and dicers. 
[Faith, William, the mair I think on 't, the mair I'm 
o' Mr. Leslie's mind. Come the night, or come the 
morn, and I'se gie ye my free permission, and lend 
ye a hand in at the window forbye ! 

Brodie. Come, come, Procurator, lead not our 
poor clay into temptation. (Leslie mid Mary talk 
apart.) 

Lawson. I'm no muckle afraid for your puir clay, 
as ye ca 't.] But hark i' your ear : ye're likely, joking 
apart, to be gey and sune in partnership wi' Mr. Leslie. 
He and Mary are gey and pack, a body can see that. 

9 



I 

Sc. 2 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I [Brodie. ' Baffin' and want o' wit ' — you know the 

rest. 

Lawson. Vidi, scivi, et audivi, as we say in a 
Sasine, William.] Man, because my wig's pouthered 
do ye think I havena a green heart ? I was aince 
a lad mysel', and I ken fine by the glint o' the e'e 
when a lad's fain and a lassie's willing. And, 
man, it's the town's talk ; communis error Jit jus, 
ye ken. 

[Old Brodie. Oh ! 

Lawson. See, ye're hurting your faither's hand. 

Brodie. Dear dad, it is not good to have an ill- 
tempered son. 

Lawson. What the deevil ails ye at the match ? 
'Od, man, he has a nice bit divot o' Fife corn-land, I 
can tell ye, and some Bordeaux wine in his cellar! 
But I needna speak o' the Bordeaux ; ye'll ken the 
smack o't as weel's I do mysel' ; onyway it's grand 
wine. Tantum et tale. I tell ye the pro's, find you 
the conJ's, if ye're able.] 

Brodie. [I am sorry, Procurator, but I must be 
short with you.] You are talking in the air, as 
lawyers will. I prefer to drop the subject [and it 
will displease me if you return to it in my hearing]. 

Leslie. At four o'clock to-morrow ? At my house ? 
[to Mary). 

Mary. As soon as church is done. {Exit Mary.) 

Lawson. Ye needna be sae high and mighty, ony- 
way. 

lO 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Brodie. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we I 

Brodies — you know our failings ! [A bad temper and j 

a humour of privacy,] Cp 

Lawson. Weel, I maun be about my business. 
But I could tak' a doch-an-dorach, William ; sitper- 
fiua non nocent, as we say ; an extra dram hurts nae- 
body, Mr. Leslie. 

Brodie (with bottle and glasses). Here's your old 
friend, Procurator. Help yourself, Leslie. Oh no, 
thank you, not any for me. You strong people have 
the advantage of me there. With my attacks, you 
know, I must always live a bit of a hermif s life. 

Lawson. 'Od, man, that's fine ; that's health o' 
mind and body. Mr. Leslie, here's to you, sir. 'Od, 
it's harder to end than to begin wi' stuff like that. 

SCENE III 
To these, Smith ^w^ Jean, C. 

Smith. Is the king of the castle in, please ? g^ ^ 

Lawson {aside). Lord's sake, it's Smith! 

Brodie {to Smith). I beg your pardon ? 

Smith. I beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. 
Brodie at home, sir ? 

Brodie. What do you want with him, my man ? 

Smith. I've a message for him, sir, a job of work, 
sir ! 

Brodie {to Smith ; referring to Jean). And who 
is this ? 

II 



Sc. 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I Jean. I am here for the Procurator, about my rent. 

J There's nae ofifence, I hope, sir. 

Lawson. It's just an honest wife I let a flat to in 
Libberton's Wynd. It'll be for the rent ? 
Jean. Just that, sir. 

Lawson. Weel, we can just bide here a wee, and 
I'll step down the road to my office wi' ye. {Exeunt 
Brodie, Lawson, Leslie, C.) 

SCENE IV 
Smith, Jean Watt, Old Brodie 
Sc. 4 Smith (bowing them oiit). Your humble and most 
devoted servant, George Smith, Esquire. And so this 
is the garding, is it ? And this is the style of horti- 
culture ? Ha, it is ! {At the mirror.) In that case 
George's mother bids him bind his hair. [Kisses his 
hand.) My dearest Duchess, — (Ti^jEAN.) I say, 
Jean, there's a good deal of difference between this 
sort of thing and the way we does it in Libberton's 
Wynd. 

Jean. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck ? 

Smith. Ah, Jean, if you'd cast affection's glance 
on this poor but honest soger ! George Lord S. is not 
the nobleman to cut the object of his flame before the 
giddy throng ; nor to keep her boxed up in an old 
mouse-trap, while he himself is revelling in purple 
splendours like these. He didn't know you, Jean : he 
was afraid to. Do you call that a man ? Try a man 
that is. 

12 



Sc. 4 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Jean. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I'll tak' I 

nane o' that sort of talk frae you. And what kind o' j 

a man are you to even yoursel' to the likes o' him ? 
He's a gentleman. 

Smith. Ah, ain't he just ! And don't he live up to 
it ? I say, Jean, feel of this chair. 

Jean. My ! look at yon bed ! 

Smith. The carpet too ! Axminster, by the bones 
of Oliver Cromwell ! 

Jean. What a expense ! 

Smith. Hey, brandy ! The deuce of the grape 1 
Have a toothful, Mrs. Watt. [(Sings)— ' 
' Says Bacchus to Venus, 
There's brandy between us, 
And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl ! '] 

Jean. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith. 

Smith. What brings the man from stuff like this 
to rotgut and spittoons at Mother Clarke's ; but ah, 
George, you was born for a higher spear ! And so 
was you, Mrs. Watt, though I say it that shouldn't. 
[Seeing- OLD BRODlE/fr the first time.) Hullo ! it's 
a man ! 

Jean. Thonder in the chair. {They go to look at 
him, their backs to the door.) 

George. Is he alive? 

Jean. I think there's something wrong with him. 

George. And how was you to-morrow, my valued 
old gentleman, eh ? 

Jean. Dinna mak' a mock o' him, Geordie. 



I 
Sc. 4 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I Old Brodie. My son — the Deacon — Deacon of 

his trade. 

Jean. He'll be his feyther. (Hunt appears at 
door C, and stands looking on^ 

Smith. The Deacon's old man ! Well, he couldn't 
expect to have his quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? 
{To Old Brodie.) Ah, my Christian soldier, if you 
had, the world would have been more varigated. 
Mrs. Deakin (to Jean), let me introduce you to your 
dear papa. 

Jean. Think shame to yoursel' ! This is the 
Deacon's house ; you and me shouldna be here by 
rights ; and if we are, its the least we can do to 
behave dacent. [This is no the way ye'll mak' me 
like ye.] 

Smith. All right, Duchess. Don't be angry. 

SCENE V 

To these. Hunt, C. {He steals down, and claps each 
one suddenly on the shoulder.) 

Sc. K Hunt. Is there a gentleman here by the name of 

Mr. Procurator-Fiscal ? 

Smith [pidling himself together). D n it, Jerry, 

what do you mean by startling an old customer like 
that? 

Hunt. What, my brave un' ? You're the very 
party I was looking for ! 

Smith. There's nothing out against me this time ? 

14 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Hunt. I'll take odds there is. But it ain't in my \ 



I 

Sc. 5 



hands. {Ta Old Brodie.) You'll excuse me, old 
genelman ? 

Smith. Ah, well, if it's all in the way of friend- 
ship ! . . . I say, Jean, [you and me had best be on 
the toddle.] We shall be late for church. 

Hunt. Lady, George ? 

Smith. It's a yes, it's a lady. Come along, 

Jean. 

Hunt. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe ? [That was the 
name, I think ?] Won't Mrs. Deacon let me have a 
queer at her phiz ? 

Jean {iminuffling). I've naething to be ashamed 
of. My name's Mistress Watt ; I'm weel kennt at 
the Wynd heid ; there's naething again me. 

Hunt. No, to be sure, there ain't ; and why clap 
on the blinkers, my dear ? You that has a face like 
a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt that might be 
your born father ? [But all this don't tell me about 
Mr. Procurator-Fiscal.] 

George (/« an agony). Jean, Jean, we shall be 
late. {Going with atte7npted swagger.) Well, ta-ta, 
Jerry. 

SCENE VI 

To these, C, Brodie and Lawson [greatcoat, 
muffler, lantern). 

Lawson [from the door). Come your ways, Sc. 6 
Mistress Watt. 

IS 



I 
Sc.6 



Sc. 7 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

Jean. That's the Fiscal himsel'. 

Hunt. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe ? 

Lawson. That's me. Who'll you be ? 

Hunt. Hunt the Runner, sir ; Hunt from Bow 
Street ; English warrant. 

Lawson. There's a place for a' things, officer. 
Come your ways to my office, with me and this guid 
wife. 

Brodie [aside to Jean, as she passes with a 
curtsey). How dare you be here ? {Aloud to Smith.) 
Wait you here, my man. 

Smith. If you please, sir. (Q'R.OTilY. goes 02it, C.) 

SCENE VII 
Brodie, Smith 

Brodie. What the devil brings yon here ? 

Smith. G?;/found it, Deakin ! Not rusty ? 

[Brodie. And not you only : Jean too ! Are you 
mad ? 

Smith. Why, you don't mean to say, Deakin, 
that you have been stodged by G. Smith, Esquire ? 
Plummy old George ?J 

Brodie. There was my uncle the Procurator 

Smith. The Fiscal ? He don't count. 

Brodie, What d'ye mean ? 

Smith. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson's 
Nunkev Lawson, and it's all in the family way, 
I don't mind telling you that Nunkey Lawson's a 
i6 



Sc. 7 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

customer of George's. We give Nunkey Lawson a I 

good deal of brandy — G. S. and Co.'s celebrated j 

Nantz. 

Brodie. What ! does he buy that smuggled trash 
of yours ? 

Smith. Well, we don't call it smuggled in the 
trade, Deakin. It's a wink, and King George's picter 
between G. S. and the Nunks. 

Brodie. Gad ! that's worth knowing. O Procu- 
rator, Procurator, is there no such thing as virtue ? 
[AHons ! It's enough to cure a man of vice for this 
world and the other J But hark you hither, Smith ; 
this is all damned well in its way, but it don't explain 
what brings you here. 

Smith. I've trapped a pigeon for you. 

Brodie. Can't you pluck him yourself? 

Smith. Not me. He's too flash in the feather for 
a simple nobleman like George Lord Smith. It's the 
great Capting Starlight, fresh in from York. [He's 
exercised his noljle art all the way from here to 
London. ' Stand and deliver, stap my vitals ! '] And 
the north road is no bad lay, Deakin. 

Brodie. Flush ? 

Smith {tnimicking). ' The graziers, split me ! A 
mail, stap my vitals ! and seven demned farmers, by 
the Lard—' 

Brodie. By Gad ! 

Smith. Good for trade, ain't it ? And we thought, 
Deakin, the Badger and me, that coins being ever on 

17 



Sc. 7 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I the vanish, and you not over sweet on them there 

J lovely little locks at Leslie's, and them there bigger 

and uglier marine stores at the Excise Office. . . . 

Brodie {Unpassible). Go on. 

Smith. Worse luck ! . . . We thought, me and the 
Badger, you know, that maybe you'd like to exercise 
your helbow with our free and galliant horseman. 

Brodie. The old move, I presume ? the double 
set of dice ? 

Smith. That's the rig, Deakin. What you drop 
on the square you pick up again on the cross. [Just 
as you did with G. S. and Co.'s own agent and corre- 
spondent, the Admiral from Nantz.] You always was 
a neat hand with the bones, Deakin. 

Brodie. The usual terms, I suppose ? 

Smith. The old discount, Deakin. Ten in the 
pound for you, and the rest for your jolly companions 
every one. \TJiafs the way we does it !] 

Brodie. Who has the dice ? 

Smith. Our mutual friend, the Candleworm. 

Brodie. You mean Ainslie ? — We trust that crea- 
ture too much, Geordie. 

Smith. He's all right, Marquis. He wouldn't lay 
a finger on his own mother. Why, he's no more 
guile in him than a set of sheep's trotters. 

[Brodie. You think so ? Then see he don't cheat 
you over the dice, and give you light for loaded. See 
to that, George, see to that ; and you may count the 
Captain as bare as his last grazier. 

i8 



Sc. 7 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Smith. The Black Flag forever ! George'll trot I 

him round to Mother Clarke's in two twos.] How j 

long'll you be ? 

Brodie. The time to lock up and go to bed, and 
I'll be with you. Can you find your way out ? 

Smith. Bloom on, my Sweet William, in peaceful 
array. Ta-ta. 

SCENE VIII 

Brodie, Old Brodie ; to whovt, Mary 

Mary. O Willie, I am glad you did not go with Sc. 8 
them. I have something to tell you. If you knew 
how happy I am, you would clap your hands, Will. 
But come, sit you down there, and be my good big 
brother, and I will kneel here and take your hand. 
We must keep close to dad, and then he will feel 
happiness in the air. The poor old love, if we could 
only tell him ! But I sometimes think his heart has 
gone to heaven already, and takes a part in all our 
joys and sorrows ; and it is only his poor body that 
remains here, helpless and ignorant. Come, Will, 
sit you down, and ask me questions — or guess — that 
will be better, guess. 

Brodie. Not to-night, Mary ; not to-night. I have 
other fish to fry, and they won't wait. 

Mary. Not one minute for your sister? One little 
minute for your little sister ? 

Brodie. Minutes are precious, Mary. I have to 
work for all of us, and the clock is always busy. 

19 



I 
Sc.8 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I They are waiting for me even now. Help me with 

the dad's chair. And then to bed, and dream happy 
things. And to-morrow morning I will hear your news 
— your good news ; it must be good, you look so 
proud and glad. But to-night it cannot be. 

Mary. I hate your business — I hate all business. 
To think of chairs, and tables, and foot-rules, all dead 
and wooden — and cold pieces of money with the 
King's ugly head on them ; and here is your sister, 
your pretty sister, if you please, with something to 
tell, which she would not tell you for the world, and 
would give the world to have you guess, and you 
won't ? — Not you ! For business ! Fie, Deacon 
Brodie ! But I'm too happy to find fault with you. 

Brodie. 'And me a Deacon,' as the Procurator 
would say. 

Mary. No such thing, sir ! I am not a bit afraid 
of you — ^nor a bit angry neither. Give me a kiss, and 
promise me hours and hours to-morrow morning. 

Brodie. All day long to-morrow, if you like. 

Mary. Business or none ? 

Brodie. Business or none, little sister ! I'll make 
time, I promise you ; and there's another kiss for 
surety. Come along. {They proceed to ptish out the 
chair, L.C.) The wine and wisdom of this evening 
have given me one of my headaches, and I'm in haste 
for bed. You'll be good, won't you, and see they 
make no noise, and let me sleep my fill to-morrow 
morning till I wake ? 
20 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Mary. Poor Will ! How selfish I must have I 

seemed ! You should have told me sooner, and I j 

wouldn't have worried you. Come along. Cp q^ 
[She goes out, pushing chair.') 

SCENE IX 

Brodie 

(//<? closes, locks, and dorible-bolts both doors) 

Brodie. Now for one of the Deacon's headaches ! Sc. 9 
Rogues all, rogues all ! {Goes to clothes-press, and 
proceeds to c-hange his coat.) On with th6 new coat 
and into the new life ! Down with the Deacon and 
up with the robber ! [Changing neck-ba}id and ruffles.) 
Eh God ! how still the house is ! There's something 
in hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we seem, 
what would the world be ? [The city has its vizard 
on, and we — at night we are our naked selves. Trysts 
are keeping, bottles cracking, knives are stripping ; 
and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of 
men he is !] — How still it is ! . . . My father and 
Mary — Well ! the day for them, the night for me ; 
the grimy cynical night that makes all cats grey, and 
all honesties of one complexion. Shall a man not 
have half a life of his own ? — not eight hours out of 
twenty-four ? [Eight shall he have should he dare 
the pit of Tophet.] {Takes out money.) Where's the 
blunt ? I must be cool to-night, or . . . steady. 
Deacon, you must win ; damn you, you must ! You 

21 



Sc. 9 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I must win back the dowry that you've stolen, and 

X marry your sister, and pay your debts, and gull the 

world a little longer ! {As he blows out the lights.) 
The Deacon's going to bed — the poor sick Deacon ! 
Allojis ! {Throws up the window., and looks out.) 
Only the stars to see' me ! {Addressing the bed.) Lie 
there, Deacon ! sleep and be well to-morrow. As for 
me, I'm a man once more till morning. {Gets out of 
the window.) 

TABLEAU 11 

Hunt the Runner 

The Scene represents the Procurator's Office. 

SCENE I 

Lawson, Hunt 

[Lawson {entering). Step your ways in, Officer. 
{At wing.) Mr. Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent 
wife that cam' in wi' me. Nae news ? 

A VOICE WITHOUT. Naething, sir. 

Lawson {sitting). Weel, Officer, and what can I 
do for you ?] 

Hunt. Well, sir, as I was saying, I've an English 
warrant for the apprehension of one Jemmy Rivers, 
alias Captain Starlight, now at large within your 
jurisdiction. 

Lawson. That'll be the highwayman ? 

Hunt. That same, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. The 
Captain's given me a hard hunt of it this time. I 



II 

Sc. I 



Sc. I 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

dropped on his marks first at Huntingdon, but he was I 

away North, and I had to up and after him. I heard jj 

of him all along the York road, for he's a light hand 
on the pad, has Jemmy, and leaves his mark. [I 
missed him at York by four-and-twenty hours, and 
lost him for as much more. Then I picked him up 
again at Carlisle, and we made a race of it for the 
Border ; but he'd a better nag, and was best up in 
the road ; so I had to wait till I ran him to earth in 
Edinburgh here and could get a new warrant.] So 
here I am, sir. They told me you were an active sort 
of gentleman, and I'm an active man myself. And 
Sir John Fielding, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, he's an 
active gentleman, likewise, though he's blind as ahim- 
age, and he desired his compliments to you, [sir, and 
said that between us he thought we'd do the trick]. 

Lawson. Ay, he'll be a fine man, Sir John. Hand 
me owre your papers. Hunt, and you'll have your 
new warrant quam priinn/n. And see here, Hunt, 
ye'U aiblins have a while to yoursel', and an active 
man, as ye say ye are, should aye be grinding grist. 
We're sair forfeuchen wi' our burglaries. Non con- 
stat de persond. We canna get a grip o' the delin- 
quents. Here is the Hue and Cry. Ye see there is 
a guid two hundred pounds for ye. 

Hunt. Well, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal [I ain't a rich 
man, and two hundred's two hundred. Thereby, sir], 
I don't mind telling you I've had a bit of a worry at 
it already. You see, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I had to 

23 



II 
Sc. I 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I look into a ken to-night about the Captain, and an 

old cock always likes to be sure of his walk ; so I got 
one of your Scotch officers — him as was so polite as 
to show me round to Mr. Brodie's — to give me full 
particulars about the 'ouse, and the flash companions 
that use it. In his list I drop on the names of two 
old lambs of my own ; and I put it to you, Mr. Pro- 
curator-Fiscal, as a genleman as knows the world, if 
what's a black sheep in London is likely or not to be 
keeping school in Edinburgh ? 

Lawson. Coelum 7wn animum. A just observe. 

Hunt. I'll give it a thought, sir, and see if I can't 
kill two birds with one stone. Talking of which, Mr. 
Procurator-Fiscal, I'd like to have a bit of a confab 
with that nice young woman as came to pay her rent. 

Lawson. Hunt, that's a very decent woman. 

Hunt. And a very decent woman may have mighty 
queer pals, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. Lord love you, 
sir, I don't know what the profession would do with- 
out 'em ! 

Lawson. Ye're vera richt. Hunt. An active and 
a watchful officer. I'll send her in till ye. 

SCENE II 

Hunt {solus) 

Sc. 2 Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One 

burglary after another, and these Scotch blockheads 

without a man to show for it. Jock runs east, and 

Sawney cuts west ; everything's at a deadlock ; and 

24 



Sc. 2 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

they go on calling themselves thief-catchers ! [By I 

Jingo, I'll show them how we do it down South ! jj 

Well, I've worn out a good deal of saddle leather 
over Jemmy Rivers ; but here's for new breeches if 
you like.] Let's have another queer at the list. 
[Reads.) ' Humphrey Moore, otherwise Badger ; 
aged forty, thick-set, dark, close-cropped ; has been 
a prize-fighter ; no apparent occupation.' Badger's 
an old friend of mine, ' George Smith, otherwise the 
Dook, otherwise Jingling Geordie ; red-haired and 
curly, slight, flash ; an old thimble-rig ; has been a 
stroller ; suspected of smuggling ; an associate of 
loose women.' G. S., Esquire, is another of my 
flock. * Andrew Ainslie, otherwise Slink Ainslie ; 
aged thirty -five ; thin, white-faced, lank-haired ; no 
occupation ; has been in trouble for reset of theft 
and subornation of youth ; might be useful as king's 
evidence.' That's an acquaintance to make. 'Jock 
Hamilton, otherwise Sweepie,' and so on. [' Willie 
M'Glashan,' hum — yes, and so on, and so on.] Ha! 
here's the man I want. ' William Brodie, Deacon 
of the Wrights, about thirty ; tall, slim, dark ; wears 
his own hair ; is often at Clarke's, but seemingly 
for purposes of amusement only ; [is nephew to the 
Procurator-Fiscal ; is commercially sound, but has of 
late (it is supposed) been short of cash ; has lost much 
at cock-fighting ;] is proud, clever, of good repute, but 
is fond of adventures and secrecy, and keeps low 
company.' Now, here's what I ask myself : here's 

25 



Sc. 2 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I this list of the family party that drop into Mother 

J J Clarke's ; it's been in the hands of these nincompoops 

for weeks, and I'm the first to cry Queer Street ! 
Two well-known cracksmen, Badger and the Dook ! 
why, there's Jack in the Orchard at once. This here 
topsawyer work they talk about, of course that's a 
chalk above Badger and the Dook. But how about 
our Mohock-tradesman ? ' Purposes of amusement ! ' 
What next ? Deacon of the Wrights ? and wright in 
their damned lingo means a kind of carpenter, I 
fancy ? Why, damme, its the man's trade ! I'll 
look you up, Mr. William Brodie, Deacon of the 
Wrights. As sure as my name's Jerry Hunt, I 
wouldn't take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance 
of that 'ere two hundred ! 

SCENE III 

Hunt ; to him Jean 

Cp ^ Hunt. Well, my dear, and how about your gentle- 

man friend now ? How about Deacon Brodie ? 

Jean. I dinna ken your name, sir, nor yet whae ye 
are ; but this is a very poor employ for ony gentle- 
man — it sets ill wi' ony gentleman to cast my shame 
in my teeth. 

Hunt. Lord love you, my dear, that ain't my 
line of country. Suppose you're not married and 
churched a hundred thousand times, what odds to 
Jerry Hunt ? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as 

26 



Sc. 3 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

might be your parent ; a cove renowned for the \ 

ladies' friend [and he's dead certain to be on your jj 

side]. What I can't get over is this : here's this 
Mr. Deacon Brodie doing the genteel at home, and 
leaving a nice young 'oman Hke you — as a cove may 
say — to take it out on cold potatoes. That's what I 
can't get over, Mrs. Watt. I'm a family man myself; 
and I can't get over it. 

Jean. And whae said that to ye ? They lee'd what- 
ever. I get naething but guid by him ; and I had 
nae richt to gang to his house ; and O, I just ken 
I've been the ruin of him. 

Hunt. Don't you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now 
I hear you piping up for him, I begin to think a lot of 
him myself. I like a cove to be open-handed and free. 

Jean. Weel, sir, and he's a' that. 

Hunt. Well, that shows what a wicked world this 

is. Why, they told me . Well, well, ' here's the 

open 'and and the 'appy 'art.' And how much, my 
dear — speaking as a family man — now, how much 
might your gentleman friend stand you in the course 
of a year ? 

Jean. What's your wull ? 

Hunt. That's amighty fancyshawl, Mrs. Watt. [I 
should like to take its next-door neighbour to Mrs. 
Hunt in King Street, Common Garden.] What's 
about the figure ? 

Jean. It's paid for. Ye can sweir to that. 

Hunt. Yes, my dear, and so is King George's 

27 



Sc. 3 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I crown ; but I don't know what it cost, and I don't 

TT know where the blunt came from to pay for it. 

Jean. I'm thinking ye'll be a vera clever gentleman. 
Hunt. So I am, my dear ; and I like you none 
the worse for being artful yourself. But between 

friends now, and speaking as a family man 

Jean. I'll be wishin' ye a fine nicht. {Curtsies and 
goes out.) 

SCENE IV 

Hunt {solus) 

Sc. 4 Hunt. Ah ! that's it, is it ? * My fancy man's my 

'ole delight,' as we say in Bow Street. But which is 
the fancy man ? George the Dook, or William the 
Deacon ? One or both ? {He winks solemnly.) Well, 
Jerry, my boy, here's your work cut out for you ; but 
if you took one-nine-five for that 'ere little two hun- 
dred you'd be a disgrace to the profession. 

TABLEAU III 

Mother Clarke's 
SCENE I 

The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance ; settles, 
spittoons, etc. ; sanded JJoor. A large table at back, inhere Ainslib, 
Hamilton, and others are playing cards and guarrelling. In front, 
T L. and R. smaller tables, at one of -nihich are I3rodie and Moore, 

drinking, Mrs. Clarkb atid ivomen serving. 

^^^ Moore. You've got the devil's own luck, Deacon, 

oC. I that's what you've got. 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Brodie. Luck ! Don't talk of luck to a man like I 

me! Why not say I've the devil's own judgment? jjj 
Men of my stamp don't risk — they plan, Badger ; c 
they plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you 
[and Jingling Geordie. They make opportunities 
before they take them]. 

Moore. You're artful, ain't you ? 

Brodie. Should I be here else ? When I leave 
my house I leave an alibi behind me. I'm ill— ill 
with a jumping headache, and the fiend's own temper. 
I'm sick in bed this minute, and they're all going 
about v.'ith the fear of death on them lest they should 
disturb the poor sick Deacon. [My bedroom door i<, 
barred and bolted like the bank — you remember ! — 
and all the while the window's open, and the Deacon's 
over the hills and far away. What do you think of 
me ?] 

MoORE. I've seen your sort before, I have. 

Brodie. Not you. As for Leslie's 

MooRE. That was a nick above you. 

Brodie. Ay was it. He wellnigh took me red- 
handed ; and that was better luck than I deserved. 
If I'd not been drunk, and in my tantrums, you'd 
never have got my hand witliin a thousand years of 
such a job. 

Moore. Why not ? You're the King of the 
Cracksmen, ain't you ? 

Brodie. Why not ! He asks me why not ! Gods, 
what a brain it is ! Hark ye, Badger, it's all very 

29 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I well to be King of the Cracksmen, as you call it ; but 

jjj however respectable he may have the misfortune to 
Cp J be, one's friend is one's friend, and as such must be 
severely let alone. What ! shall there be no more 
honour among thieves than there is honesty among 
politicians ? Why, man, if under heaven there were 
but one poor lock unpicked, and that the lock of one 
whose claret you've drunk, and who has babbled of 
woman across your own mahogany — that lock, sir, 
were entirely sacred. Sacred as the Kirk of Scot- 
land ; sacred as King George upon his throne ; sacred 
as the memory of Bruce and Bannockburn. 

Moore. Oh, rot ! I ain't a parson, I ain't ; I 
never had no college education. Business is busi- 
ness. That's wot's the matter with me. 

Brodie. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight 
with Newcastle Jemmy, and sent us all home poor 
men. That was a nick above _yc'«. 

Moore. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that's my 
opinion of him : muck. I'll mop the floor up with 
him any day, if so be as you or any on 'em '11 make 
it worth my while. If not, muck ! That's my motto. 
Wot I now ses is, about that 'ere crib at Leslie's, wos 
I right, I ses ? or wos I wrong ? That's wot's the 
matter with you. 

Brodie. You are both right and wrong. You dared 
me to do it. I was drunk ; I was upon my mettle ; 
and I as good as did it. More than that, black- 
guardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is my 

30 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

friend. He had dined with me that day, and I felt I 

Hke a man in a story. I cUmbed his wall, I crawled jjj 
along his pantry roof, I mounted his window-sill. q 
That one turn of my wrist — you know it ! — and the 
casement was open. It was as dark as the pit, and 
I thought I'd won my wager, when, phewt ! down 
went something inside, and down went somebody 
with it. I made one leap, and was off like a rocket. 
It was my poor friend in person ; and if he'd caught 
and passed me on to the watchman under the win- 
dow, I should have felt no viler rogue than I feel 
just now. 

Moore. I s'pose he knows you pretty well by this 
time ? 

Brodie. 'Tis the worst of friendship. Here, Kirsty, 
fill these glasses. Moore, here's better luck — and a 
more honourable plant ! — next time. 

Moore. Deacon, I looks towards you. But it 
looks thundering like rotten eggs, don't it ? 

Brodie. I think not. I was masked, for one thing, 
and for another I was as quick as lightning. He sus- 
pects me so little that he dined with me this very 
afternoon. 

Moore. Anyway, you ain't game to try it on again, 
I'll lay odds on that. Once bit, twice shy. That's 
your motto. 

Brodie. Right again. I'll put my alibi to a better 
use. And, Badger, one word in your ear : there's 
no Newcastle Jemmy about me. Drop the subject, 

31 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I and for good, or I shall drop you. {He rises, and 



III 

Sc. I 



walks backwards and forwards, a little unsteadily. 
Then returns, and sits L., as before.) 

SCENE II 
To these. Hunt, disguised 

He is disguised as a ''Jiyin^s: statio^ter'' with a patch over his eye. 

He sits at table opposite Brodie's, and is served 7vith 

bread and cheese and beer 

Sc. 2 Hamilton [frotn behind). The deevil tak' the 
cairts ! 

AiNSLlE. Hoot, man, dinna blame the cairts. 

Moore. Look here. Deacon, I mean business, I 
do. (Hunt looks up at the name of ' Deacon.') 

Brodie. Gad, Badger, I never meet you that you 
do not. [You have a set of the most commercial 
intentions !] You make me blush. 

Moore. That's all blazing fine, that is ! But wot 
I ses is, wot about the chips ? That's what I ses. 
I'm after that thundering old Excise Office, I am. 
That's my motto. 

Brodie. 'Tis a very good motto, and at your lips. 
Badger, it kind of warms my heart. But it's not 
mine. 

Moore. Muck ! why not ? 

Brodie. 'Tis too big and too dangerous. I shirk 
King George ; he has a fat pocket, but he has a long 
arm. [You pilfer sixpence from him, and it's three 

32 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

hundred reward for you, and a hue and cry from I 

Tophet to the stars.] It ceases to be business ; it jjj 
turns poUtics, and I'm not a politician, Mr. Moore. c „ ^ 
[Rising.) I'm only Deacon Brodie. 

Moore. All right. I can wait. 

Brodie {seeing Hunt). Ha, a new face, — and with 
a patch ! [There's nothing under heaven I like so 
dearly as a new face with a patch.] Who the devil, 
sir, are you that own it ? And where did you get 
it ? And how much will you take for it second- 
hand ? 

Hunt. Well, sir, to tell you the truth (Brodie 
bo'ws) it's not for sale. But it's my own, and I'll 
drink your honour's health in anything. 

Brodie. An Englishman, too! Badger, behold a 
countryman. What are you, and what part of southern 
Scotland do you come from ? 

Hunt. Well, your honour, to tell you the honest 
truth 

[Brodie {bowing). Your obleeged !] 

Hunt. I knows a gentleman when I sees him, 
your honour [and, to tell your honour the truth 

Brodie. Je vous baisc les mains ! {Bowing.)] 

Hunt. A gentleman as is a gentleman, your honour 
[is always a gentleman, and to tell you the honest 
truth] 

Brodie. Great heavens ! answer in three words, 
and be hanged to you ! What are you, and where 
are you from ? 

33 



Sc. 2 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I Hunt. A patter-cove from Seven Dials. 

TTT Brodie. Is it possible ? All my life long have I 

been pining to meet with a patter-cove from Seven 
Dials ! Embrace me, at a distance. [A patter-cove 
from Seven Dials !] Go, fill yourself as drunk as you 
dare, at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. Clarke. 
He's a patter-cove from Seven Dials. Hillo ! what's 
all this ? 

AiNSLIE. Dod, I'm for nae mair ! {Af back, and 
rising.) 

Players. Sit down, Ainslie. — Sit down, Andra. — 
Ma revenge ! 

Ainslie. Na, na, I'm for canny goin'. {Coming 
for-djard with bottle.') Deacon, let's see your 
gless. 

Brodie. Not an inch of it. 

Moore. No rotten shirking, Deacon ! 

[Ainslie. I'm sayin', man, let's see your gless. 

Brodie. Go to the deuce !] 

Ainslie. But I'm sayin' 

Brodie. Haven't I to play to-night ? 

Ainslie. But, man, ye'U drink to bonnie Jean 
Watt ? 

Brodie. Ay, I'll follow you there. A la rcine de 
mes amours ! {Drinks.) What fiend put this in your 
way, you hound ? You've filled me with raw stuff. 
By the muckle deil ! 

Moore. Don't hit him, Deacon ; tell his mother. 

Hunt {aside). Oho! 

34 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

I 

SCENE III III 

To these. Smith, Rivers Sc. ; 

Smith. Where's my beloved ? Deakin, my beauty, 
where are you ? Come to the arms of George, and 
let him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers ! 
Capting, the Deakin : Deakin, the Capting. An 
English nobleman on the grand tour, to open his 
mind, by the Lard ! 

Rivers. Stupendiously pleased to make your ac- 
quaintance, Mr. Deakin, split me ! 

[Brodie. We don't often see England's heroes our 
way. Captain, but when we do, we make them infer- 
nally welcome. 

Rivers. Prettily put, sink me ! A demned genteel 
sentiment, stap my vitals !] 

Brodie. Oh Captain ! you flatter me. [We Scots- 
men have our qualities, I suppose, but we are but 
rough and ready at the best. There's nothing like 
your Englishman for genuine distinction. He is 
nearer France than we are, and smells of his neigh- 
bourhood. That d d thing, the je 7ie sais quoi, 

too ! Lard, Lard, split me ! stap my vitals ! O such 
manners are pure, pure, pure. They are. by the 
shade of Claude Duval !] 

Rivers. Mr. Deakin, Mr, Deakin [this is passa- 
tively too much]. What will you sip ? Give it the 
//anar of a neam. 

35 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I Brodie. By these most /^anarable hands now, 



III 

Sc; 



Captain, you shall not. On such an occasion I 
could play host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke, 
Mother Midnight ! Down with you. Captain ! [forcing 
him boisterously into a chair.) I don't know if you 
can lie, but, sink me ! you shall sit. {Drinking, etc., 
in dmnb-show.) 

Moore {aside to Smith). We've nobbled him, 
Geordie ! 

Smith {aside to Moore). As neat as ninepence ! 
He's taking it down like mother's milk. But there'll 
be wigs on the green to-morrow. Badger ! It'll be 
tuppence and toddle with George Smith. 

Moore. O muck! Who's afraid of him? {To 
AiNSLlE.) Hang on, Slinkie. 

Hunt {who is feigning drunkenness, and has over- 
heard ; aside). By Jingo ! 

[Rivers. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir ? 

Brodie. Thanks ; I have all the vices, Captain. 
You must send me some of your rappee. It is passa- 
tively perfect.] 

Rivers. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the //anar of a 
sip to you. 

Brodie. Topsy-turvy with the can ! 

Moore {aside to Smith). That made him 
wink. 

Brodie. Your high and mighty hand, my Captain ! 
Shall we dice — dice — dice ? {Dumb-show between 
them.) 

36 



Sc. 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

AiNSLlE {aside to Moore). I'm sayin' ? I 

Moore. What's up now ? jjj 

AiNSLlE. I'm no to gie him the coggit dice ? 

Moore. The square ones, rot you ! Ain't he got 
to lose every brass fardcn ? 

AINSLIE. What'll like be my share ? 

Moore. You mucking well leave that to me. 

Rivers. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will 
have me shake a //elbow 

Brodie. Where are the bones, Ainslie ? Where 
are the dice, Lord George ? (Ainslie gives the 
dice and dice-box to Brodie ; and privately a 
second pair of dice.) Old Fortune's counters; the 
bonnie money - catching, money - breeding bones ! 
Hark to their dry music ! Scotland against Eng- 
land ! Sit down, you tame devils, and put your 
coins on me ! 

Smith. Easy does it, my lord of high degree ! 
Keep cool. 

Brodie. Cool's the word, Captain — a cool twenty 
on the first ? 

Rivers. Done and done. {They play.) 

Hunt {aside to MoORE, a little drunk.) Ain't that 
'ere Scotch gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, 
sir ? 

MoORE. You hold your jaw ; that's what's the 
matter with you. 

Ainslie. He's waur nor he looks. He's knockit 
the box aff the table. 

2,7 



Ill 
Sc. 3 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I Smith {pickhig tip box). That's the way zue does 

it. Ten to one and no takers ! 

Brodie. Deuces again ! More liquor, Mother 
Clarke ! 

Smith. Hooray our side ! {Pouring out ^ George 
and his pal for ever ! 

Brodie. Deuces again, by heaven ! Another ? 

Rivers. Done. 

Brodie. Ten more ; money's made to go. On 
with you ! 

Rivers. Sixes. 

Brodie. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment? Double 
or quits ? 

Rivers. Drive on ! Sixes. 

Smith. Fire away, brave boys! {To MoORE.) 
It's Tally-ho-the-Grinder, Hump ! 

Brodie. Treys ! Death and the pit ! How much 
have you got there ? 

Rivers. A cool forty-five. 

Brodie. I play you thrice the lot. 

Rivers. Who's afraid ? 

Smith. Stand by, Badger ! 

Rivers. Cinq-ace. 

Brodie. My turn now. {He juggles in and uses the 
second pair of dice ^ Aces! Aces again ! What's 
this? {Picking up dice.) Sold! . . . You play false, 
you hound ! 

Rivers. You lie ! 

38 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Brodie. In your teeth. {Overturns table and goes \ 

for him.) ttj 

Moore. Here, none o' that. {They hold him back. o 
Str7iggle.) 

Smith. Hold on, Deacon ! 

Brodie. Let me go. Hands off, I say ! I'll not 
touch him. {Stands "weighing dice in his hand.) But 
as for that thieving whinger, Ainslee, I'll cut his 
throat between this dark and to-morrow's. To the 
bone. {Addressing the company.) Rogues, rogues, 
rogues! {Singing without.) Ha! what's that? 

Ainslie. It's the psalm-singing up by,at the Holy 
Weaver's. And O Deacon, if ye're a Christian 
man 

The Psalm without : — 

' Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord, 

Should'st mark iniquity ? 
But yet with Thee forgiveness is. 
That feared Thou may'st be.' 

Brodie. I think I'll go. ' My son the Deacon 
was aye regular at kirk.' If the old man could see 

his son, the Deacon ! I think I'll Ay, who shall 

stand? There's the rub! And forgiveness, too? 
There's a long word for you ! I learnt it all lang sync, 
and now . . . hell and ruin are on either hand of me, 
and the devil has me by the leg. ' My son, the 
Deacon . . . ! ' Eh, God ! but there's no fool like 
an old fool ! {Becoming conscious of the others.) 
Rogues ! 

39 



Sc. 



DEACON BRODIE 

I Smith. Take my arm, Deacon, 

jTj Brodie. Down, dog, down ! [Stay and be drunk 

with your equals.] Gentlemen and ladies, I have 
already cursed you pretty heavily. Let me do myself 
the pleasure of wishing you — a very — good evening. 
{As he goes out, Hunt, who has been staggering 
about in the crowd, falls on a settle, as about to sleep.) 



Act-Drop 



40 



ACT II 

TABLEAU IV 
Evil and Good 

The Stage represents the Deacon^ s luorkshop ; benches, shavings, tools, 

boards, and so forth. Doors, C. on the street, and L. into the house. 

IVithout, church bells ; not a chime, but a slow, broken tocsin. 

SCENE I II 

Brodie [solus). My head ! my head ! It's the ^^ 
sickness of the grave. And those bells go on . . . Sc. I 
go on ! . . . inexorable as death and judgment. 
[There they go ; the trumpets of respectability, 
sounding encouragement to the world to do and 
spare not, and not to be found out. Found out ! 
And to those who are they toll as when a man goes 
to the gallows.] Turn where I will are pitfalls hell- 
deep. Mary and her dowry ; Jean and her child — 
my child ; the dirty scoundrel Moore ; my uncle and 
his trust ; perhaps the man from Bow Street. Debt, 
vice, cruelty, dishonour, crime ; the whole canting, 

41 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I J lying, double-dealing, beastly business! 'My son 

T Y the Deacon — Deacon of the Wrights ! ' My thoughts 

c^ -. sicken at it. [Oh, the Deacon, the Deacon ! Where's 

a hat for the Deacon ? where's a hat for the Deacon's 

headache ? [searching). This place is a piggery. To 

be respectable and not to find one's hat.] 

SCENE II 
To him, Jean, a baby in her shawl. C. 

Cp 2 ']'^k'^ [who has entered silently during the DeacorCs 

last words). It's me, Wullie. 

Brodie [turning upon her). What ! You here 
again ? [you again !] 

Jean. Deacon, I'm unco vexed. 

Brodie. Do you know what you do ? Do you know 
what you risk ? [Is there nothing — nothing ! — will 
make you spare me this idiotic, wanton prosecution ?] 

Jean. I was wrong to come yestreen ; I ken that 
fine. But the day it's different ; I but to come the 
day, Deacon, though I ken fine it's the Sabbath, and 
I think shame to be seen upon the streets. 

Brodie. See here, Jean. You must go now. I'll 
come to you to-night ; I swear that. But now I'm 
for the road. 

Jean. No till you've heard me, William Brodie. 
Do ye think I came to pleasure mysel', where I'm no 
wanted ? I've a pride o' my ains. 

Brodie. Jean, I am going now. If you please to 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

stay on alone, in this house of mine, where I wish I II 
could say you are welcome, stay {going). jy 

Jean. It's the man frae Bow Street. C 

Brodie. Bow Street? 

Jean. I thocht ye would hear me. Ye think little 
o' me ; but it's mebbe a braw thing for you that I think 
sae muckle o' William Brodie ... ill as it sets me. 

Brodie. [You don't know what is on my mind, 
Jeannie, else you would forgive me.] Bow Street ? 

Jean. It's the man Hunt : him that was here 
yestreen for the Fiscal. 

Brodie. Hunt ? 

Jean. He kens a hantle. He ... Ye maunna 
be angered wi' me, WuUie ! I said what I shouldna. 

Brodie. Said ? Said what ? 

Jean. Just that ye were a guid frien' to me. He 
made believe he was awfu' sorry for me, because ye 
gied me nae siller ; and I said, ' Wha tellt him that ? ' 
and that he lee'd. 

Brodie. God knows he did ! What next ? 

Jean. He was that soft-spoken, butter wouldna 
melt in his mouth ; and he keept aye harp, harpin' ; 
but after that let out, he got neither black nor white 
frae me. Just that ae word and nae mair ; and at 
the hinder end he just speired straucht out, whaur 
it was ye got your siller frae. 

Brodie. Where I got my siller ? 

Jean. Ay, that was it. ' You ken,' says he. 

Brodie. Did he ? and what said you ? 

45 



Sc. 2 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

II Jean. I couldna think on naething, but just that 

jY he was a gey and clever gentleman. 

Brodie. You should have said I was in trade, and 
had a good business. That's what you should have 
said. That's what you would have said had you been 
worth your salt. But it's blunder, blunder, outside 
and in [upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's cham- 
ber]. You women ! Did he see Smith ? 

Jean. Ay, and kennt him. 

Brodie. Damnation ! No, I'm not angry with 

you. But you see what I've to endure for you. 
Don't cry. [Here's the devil at the door, and we 
must bar him out as best we can. J 

Jean. God's truth, ye are nae vexed wi' me ? 

Brodie. God's truth, I am grateful to you. How 
is the child? Well? That's right. {Peeping.) 
Poor wee laddie ! He's like you, Jean. 

Jean. I aye thocht he was liker you. 

Brodie. Is he ? Perhaps he is. Ah, Jeannie, you 
must see and make him a better man than his father. 

Jean. Eh man, Deacon, the proud wumman I'll 
be gin he's only half sae guid. 

Brodie. Well, well, if I win through this, we'll see 
what we can do for him between us. {Leading her 
out, C.) And now, go — go — go. 

Lawson {without, L.). I ken the way, I ken the 
way. 

Jean {starting to door). It's the Fiscal ; I'm awa. 
(Brodie, Z.). 

44 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 



SCENE III 



II 
IV 

To these, Lawson, L. Sc. 3 

Lawson. a braw day this, William. {Seeing]^K'^.) 
Eh Mistress Watt ? And what'U have brocht you 
here ? 

Brodie {seated 071 bench). Something, uncle, she 
lost last night, and she thinks that something she lost 
is here. Voila. 

Lawson. Why are ye no at the kirk, woman ? Do 
ye gang to the kirk ? 

Jean. I'm mebbe no what ye would just ca' reg'Iar. 
Ye see, Fiscal, it's the wean. 

Lawson. A bairn's an excuse ; I ken that fine, 
Mistress Watt. But bairn or nane, my woman, ye 
should be at the kirk. Awa wi' ye ! Hear to the 
bells ; they're ringing in. (Jean curtsies to both, and 
goes out C. The bells, which have been ringitig quicker, 
cease.) 

SCENE IV 

Lawson {to Brodie, returning C. from door). Qp ^ 
Miilier formosa superne, William : a braw lass, and 
a decent woman forbye. 

Brodie. I'm no judge. Procurator, but I'll take 
your word for it. Is she not a tenant of yours ? 

Lawson. Ay, ay ; a bit house on my land in 
Liberton's Wynd. Her man's awa, puir body ; or 

45 



Sc. 4 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

II they tell me sae ; and I'm concerned for her [she's 
jY unco bonnie to be left her lane]. But it sets me 
brawly to be finding faut wi' the puir lass, and me an 
elder, and should be at the plate. [There'll be twa 
words about this in the Kirk Session.] However, it's 
nane of my business that brings me, or I should tak' 
the mair shame to mysel'. Na, sir, it's for you ; it's 
your business keeps me frae the kirk. 

Brodie. My business, Procurator ? I rejoice to 
see it in such excellent hands. 

Lawson. Ye see, it's this way. I had a crack wi' 
the laddie, Leslie, inter pocula (he took a stirrup-cup 
wi' me), and he tells me he has askit Mary, and she 
was to speak to ye hersel'. O, ye needna look sae 
gash. Did she speak ? and what'll you have said to 
her? 

Brodie. She has not spoken ; I have said nothing ; 
and I believe 1 asked you to avoid the subject. 

Lawson. Ay, I made a note o' that observation, 
William [and assoilzied mysel']. Mary's a guid lass, 
and I'm her uncle, and I'm here to be answered. Is 
it to be ay or no ? 

Brodie. It's to be no. This marriage must be 
quashed ; and hark ye. Procurator, you must help me. 

Lawson. Me ? ye're daft ! And what for why ? 

Brodie. Because I've spent the trust-money, and 
I can't refund it. 

Lawson. Ye reprobate deevil ! 

Brodie. Have a care, Procurator. Nowrywordsl 

46 



Sc. 4 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Lawson. Do you say it to my face, sir ? Dod, sir, 1 1 

I'm the Crown Prosecutor. jY 

Brodie. Right. The Prosecutor for the Crown. 
And where did you get your brandy ? 

Lawson. Eh ? 

Brodie. Your brandy ! Your brandy, man ! Where 
do you get your brandy ? And you a Crown official 
and an elder ! 

Lawson. Whaur the deevil did ye hear that ? 

Brodie. Rogues all ! Rogues all. Procurator ! 

Lawson. Ay, ay. Lord save us ! Guidsake, to 
think o' that noo ! . . . Can ye give me some o' that 
Cognac ? I'm . . . I'm sort o' shaken, William, 
I'm sort o' shaken. Thank you, William ! {Looking 
piteously at glass.) Nunc est bibendum. (Drinks.) 
Troth, I'm set ajee a bit. Wha the deevil tauld ye ? 

Brodie. Ask no questions, brother. We are a 
pair. 

Lawson. Pair, indeed ! Pair, William Brodie ! 
Upon my saul, sir, ye're a brazen-faced man that 
durst say it to my face ! Tak' you care, my bonnie 
young man, that your craig doesna feel the wecht o' 
your hurdles. Keep the plainstanes side o' the 
gallows. Via trita, via tuta, William Brodie ! 

Brodie. And the brandy. Procurator ? and the 
brandy ? 

Lawson. Ay . . . weel . . . be't sae ! Let the 
brandy bide, man, let the brandy bide! But for you 
and the trust-money . . . dammed ! It's felony. 

47 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

II Tutor in rem suam, ye ken, tutor in rem stiam. But 

jy O man, Deacon, whaur is the siller? 
c . Brodie. It's gone — O how the devil should I 

* "^ know? But it'll never come back. 

Lawson. Dear, dear ! A' gone to the winds o' 
heaven ! Sae ye're an extravagant dog, too. Pro- 
digus et furiosus ! And that puir lass — eh, Deacon, 
man, that puir lass ! I mind her such a bonny bairn. 

Brodie {stopping his ears). Brandy, brandy, 
brandy, brandy, brandy ! 

Lawson. William Brodie, mony's the long day 
that I've believed in you ; prood, prood was I to be 
the Deacon's uncle ; and a sore hearing have I had 
of it the day. That's past ; that's past like Flodden 
Field ; it's an auld sang noo, and I'm an aulder man 
than when I crossed your door. But mark ye this — 
mark ye this, William Brodie, I may be no sac guid's I 
should be ; but there's no a saul between the east sea 
and the wast can lift his een to God that made him, 
and say I wranged him as ye wrang that lassie. I bless 
God, William Brodie — ay, though he was like my 
brother — I bless God that he that got ye has the hand 
of death upon his hearing, and can win into his grave 
a happier man than me. And ye speak to me, sir ? 
Think shame — think shame upon your heart ! 

Brodie. Rogues all ! 

Lawson. You're the son of my sister, William 
Brodie. Mair than that I stop not to inquire. If the 
siller is spent, and the honour tint — Lord help us, and 

48 



SCENE V 

Brodie. Sore hearing, does he say ? My hand's 
wet. But it's victory. Shall it be go ? or stay ? [I 
should show them all I can, or they may pry closer 
than they ought.] Shall I have it out and be done 
with it ? To see Mary at once [to carry bastion after 
bastion at the charge] — there were the true safety 
after all ! Hurry — hurry's the road to silence now. 
Let them once get tattling in their parlours, and it's 
death to me. For I'm in a cruel corner now. I'm 
down, and I shall get my kicking soon and soon 
enough. I began it in the lust of life, in a hey-day of 
mystery and adventure. I felt it great to be a bolder, 
craftier rogue than the drowsy citizen that called 
himself my fellow-man. [It was meat and drink to 
know him in the hollow of my hand, hoarding that I 

49 



Sc. 4 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

the honour tint ! — sae be it, I maun bow the head. 1 1 
Ruin shallna come by me. Na, and I'll say mair, jy 
William ; we have a' our weary sins upon our backs, 
and maybe I have mair than mony. But, man, if 
ye could bring /^a^ the jointure . . . \potiiis quain 
pereas\ . . . for your mither's son ? Na ? You 
couldna bring the half? Weel, weel, it's a sair heart 
I have this day, a sair heart and a weary. If I were 
a better man mysel' . . . but there, there, it's a sair 
heart that I have gotten. And the Lord kens I'll 
help ye if I can. [^Polius quam pereas,\ 



Sc. 5 



Sc. 5 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

II and mine might squander, pinching that we might 
TTT wax fat.] It was in the laughter of my heart that I 
tip-toed into his greasy privacy. I forced the strong- 
box at his ear while he sprawled beside his wife. He 
was my butt, my ape, my jumping-jack. And now 
. . . O fool, fool ! [Duped by such knaves as are 
a shame to knavery, crime's rabble, hell's tatterde- 
malions !] Shorn to the quick ! Rooked to my vitals ! 
And I must thieve for my daily bread like any crawl- 
ing blackguard in the gutter. And my sister . . . my 
kind, innocent sister ! She will come smiling to me 
with her poor little love-story, and I must break her 
heart. Broken hearts, broken lives ! . . . I should 
have died before. 

SCENE VI 
Brodie, Mary 

Sc. 6 Mary [tapping without). Can I come in. Will ? 

Brodie. O yes, come in, come in ! (Mary enters.') 
I wanted to be quiet, but it doesn't matter, I see. 
You women are all the same. 

Mary. O no. Will, they're not all so happy, and 
they're not all Brodies. But I'll be a woman in one 
thing. For I've come to claim your promise, dear ; 
and I'm going to be petted and comforted and made 
much of, altho' I don't need it, and . . . Why, Will, 
what's wrong with you ? You look ... I don't know 
what you look like. 

50 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Brodie. O nothing! A splitting head and an II 
aching heart. Well ! you've come to speak to me. jy 
Speak up. What is it ? Come, girl ! What is it ? Cp /^ 
Can't you speak ? 

Mary. Why, Will, what is the matter ? 

Brodie. I thought you had come to tell me some- 
thing. Here I am. For God's sake out with it, and 
don't stand beating about the bush. 

Mary. O be kind, be kind to me. 

Brodie. Kind ? I am kind. I'm only ill and 
worried, can't you see ? Whimpering ? I knew it ! 
Sit down, you goose ! Where do you women get 
your tears ? 

Mary. Why are you so cross with me ? Oh, Will, 
you have forgot your sister ! Remember, dear, that 
I have nobody but you. It's your own fault. Will, if 
you've taught me to come to you for kindness, for I 
always found it. And I mean you shall be kind to 
me again. I know you will, for this is my great need, 
and the day I've missed my mother sorest. Just a 
nice look, dear, and a soft tone in your voice, to give 
me courage, for I can tell you nothing till I know that 
you're my own brother once again. 

Brodie. If you'd take a hint, you'd put it off till 
to-morrow. But I suppose you won't. On, then, I'm 
listening. I'm listening ! 

Mary. Mr. Leslie has asked me to be his wife. 

Brodie. He has, has he ? 

Mary. And I have consented. 

51 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

II Brodie. And . . . ? 

jy Mary. You can say that to me ? And that is all 

c „ /^ you have to say ? 

Brodie. O no, not all. 

Mary. Speak out, sir. I am not afraid. 

Brodie. I suppose you want my consent ? 

Mary. Can you ask ? 

Brodie. I didn't know. You seem to have got on 
pretty well without it so far. 

Mary. O shame on you ! shame on you ! 

Brodie. Perhaps you may be able to do without 
it altogether. 1 hope so. For you'll never have it, 
. . . Mary! . . . 1 hate to see you look like that. If 
I could say anything else, believe me, I would say it. 
But I have said all ; every word is spoken ; there's 
the end. 

Mary. It shall not be the end. You owe me 
explanation ; and I'll have it. 

Brodie. Isn't my ' No ' enough, Mary ? 

Mary. It might be enough for me ; but it is not, 
and it cannot be, enough for him. He has asked me 
to be his wife ; he tells me his happiness is in my 
hands — poor hands, but they shall not fail him, if my 
poor heart should break ! If he has chosen and set 
his hopes upon me, of all women in the world, 1 shall 
find courage somewhere to be worthy of the choice. 
And I dare you to leave this room until you tell me 
all your thoughts — ^until you prove that this is good 
and right. 

52 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Brodie. Good and right ? They are strange words, II 
Mary. I mind the time when it was good and right jy 
to be your father's daughter and your brother's sister. Cp zr 
. , . Now ! . . . 

Mary. Have I changed ? Not even in thought. 
My father, Walter says, shall live and die with us. 
He shall only have gained another son. And you — 
you know what he thinks of you ; you know what I 
would do for you. 

Brodie. Give him up. 

Mary. I have told you : not without a reason. 

Brodie. You must. 

Mary. I will not. 

Brodie. What if I told you that you could only 
compass your happiness and his at the price of my 
ruin ? 

Mary. Your ruin ? 

Brodie. Even so. 

Mary. Ruin ! 

Brodie. It has an ugly sound, has it not ? 

Mary. O Willie, what have you done? What 
have you done ? What have you done ? 

Brodie. I cannot tell you, Mary. But you may 
trust me. You must give up this Leslie . . . and at 
once. It is to save me. 

Mary. I would die for you, dear, you know that. 
But I cannot be false to him. Even for you, I cannot 
be false to him. 

Brodie. We shall see. Let me take you to your 

53 



IV 

Sc.6 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

II room. Come. And, remember, it is for your brother's 
sake. It is to save me. 

Mary. I am true Brodie. Give me time, and you 
sliall not find me wanting. But it is all so sudden 
... so strange and dreadful ! You will give me 
time, will you not ? I am only a woman, and . . . O 
my poor Walter ! It will break his heart ! It will 
break his heart! (A knock.') 

Brodie. You hear ! 

Mary. Yes, yes. Forgive me. I am going. I 
will go. It is to save you, is it not ? To save you. 
Walter . . . Mr. Leslie . . . O Deacon, Deacon, 
God forgive you ! {S/ie goes out.) 

Brodie. Amen. But will He ? 

SCENE VII 

Brodie, Hunt 

Sc. 7 Hunt {hat in hand). Mr. Deacon Brodie, I be- 
lieve ? 

Brodie. I am he, Mr. . 

Hunt. Hunt, sir ; an officer from Sir John Field- 
ing of Bow Street. 

Brodie, There can be no better passport than the 
name. In what can I serve you ? 

Hunt. You'll excuse me, Mr. Deacon. 

Brodie. Your duty excuses you, Mr. Hunt. 

Hunt. Your obedient. The fact is, Mr. Deacon 
[we in the office see a good deal of the lives of private 

54 



Sc. 7 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

parties ; and I needn't tell a gentleman of your expe- II 
rience it's part of our duty to hold our tongues. jy 
Now], it's come to my knowledge that you are a trifle 
jokieous. Of course I know there ain't any harm in 
that. I've been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and 
speaking 

Brodie. O, but pardon me, Mr. Hunt, I am not 
going to discuss my private character with you. 

Hunt. To be sure you ain't. [And do I blame 
you ? Not me.] But, speaking as one man of the 
world to another, you naturally see a great deal of 
bad company. 

Brodie. Not half so much as you do. But I see 
what you're driving at ; and if I can illuminate the 
course of justice, you may command me. {He sits, 
and motions HUNT to do likewise.) 

Hunt. I was dead sure of it ; and 'and upon 'art, 
Mr. Deacon, I thank you. Now (consulting pocket- 
book), did you ever meet a certain George Smith ? 

Brodie. The fellow they call Jingling Geordie ? 
(Hunt nods) Yes. 

Hunt. Bad character. 

Brodie. Let us say . . . disreputable. 

Hunt. Any means of livelihood ? 

Brodie. I really cannot pretend to guess. I have 
met the creature at cock-fights [which, as you know, 
are my weakness]. Perhaps he bets. 

Hunt. [Mr. Deacon, from what I know of the 
gentleman, I should say that if he don't — if he ain't 

55 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

II open to any mortal thing — he ain't the man I mean.] 
jY He used to be about with a man called Badger 

Sc 7 ^°°^'^- 

' ' Brodie. The boxer ? 

Hunt. That's him. Know anything of him ? 

Brodie. Not much, I lost five pieces on him in a 
fight ; and I fear he sold his backers. 

Hunt. Speaking as one admirer of the noble art 
to another, Mr. Deacon, the losers always do. I sup- 
pose the Badger cockfights like the rest of us ? 

Brodie. I have met him in the pit. 

Hunt. Well, it's a pretty sport. I'm as partial 
to a main as anybody. 

Brodie. It's not an elegant taste, Mr. Hunt. 

Hunt. It costs as much as though it was. And 
that reminds me, speaking as one sportsman to 
another, Mr. Deacon, I was sorry to hear that you've 
been dropping a hatful of money lately. 

Brodie. You are very good. 

Hunt. Four hundred in three months, they tell me. 

Brodie. Ah ! 

Hunt. So they say, sir. 

Brodie. They have a perfect right to say so, Mr. 
Hunt. 

Hunt. And you to do the other thing ? Well, I'm 
a good hand at keeping close myself. 

Brodie. I am not consulting you, Mr. Hunt ; 'tis 
you who are consulting me. And if there is nothing 
else {rising) in which I can pretend to serve you . • .? 

S6 



Sc. 7 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Hunt {rising). That's about all, sir, unless you \\ 
can put me on to anything good in the way of heckle jy 
and spur ? I'd try to look in. 

Brodie. O, come, Mr. Hunt, if you have nothing 
to do, frankly and flatly I have. This is not the day 
for such a conversation ; and so good-bye to you. 
{A knockitig, C.) 

Hunt. Servant, Mr. Deacon. (Smith a;/(^MooRE, 
without waiting to be answered, open and enter, C. 
They are well info the room before they observe 
Hunt.) [Talk of the Devil, sir !J 

Brodie. What brings you here ? (Smith and 
Moore, confounded by the officer^ s presence, slouch 
together to right of door. Hunt, stopping as he goes 
out, contemplates the pair, sarcastically. This is sup- 
ported by Moore with sullen bravado j by Smith, 
with cringing airifiess.) 

Hunt {digging Smith in the ribs). Why, you are 
the very parties I was looking for ! {He goes out, C.) 



SCENE vni 

Brodie, Moore, Smith 

Moore. Wot was that cove here about ? Cp 

Brodie {with folded arms, half-sitting oti bench). 

He was here about you. 

Smith {still quite discountenanced). About us? 

Scissors ! And what did you tell him ? 

57 



Sc.8 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

II Brodie [same attitude). I spoke of you as I have 

jy found you. [I told him you were a disreputable 
hound, and that Moore had crossed a fight.] I told 
him you were a drunken ass, and Moore an incom- 
petent and dishonest boxer. 

Moore. Look here, Deacon ! Wot's up ? Wot 
I ses is, if a cove's got any thundering grudge agin 
a cove, why can't he spit it out, I ses. 

Brodie. Here are my answers {producing purse 
and dice). These are both too light. This purse is 
empty, these dice are not loaded. Is it indiscretion 
to inquire how you share ? Equal with the Captain, 
I presume ? 

Smith. It's as easy as my eye, Deakin. Slink 
Ainslie got letting the merry glass go round, and 
didn't know the right bones from the wrong. That's 

Brodie. [What clumsy liars you are ! 

Smith. In boyhood's hour, Deakin, he were called 
Old Truthful. Little did he think ] 

Brodie. What is your errand ? 

Moore. Business. 

Smith. After the melancholy games of last night, 
Deakin, which no one deplores so much as George 
Smith, we thought we'd trot round — didn't us. Hump ? 
and see how you and your bankers was a-getting on. 

Brodie. Will you tell me your errand ? 

Moore. You're dry, ain't you ? 

Brodie. Am I ? 

58 



Sc.8 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Moore. We ain't none of us got a stiver, that's II 
wot's the matter with us. JY 

Brodie. Is it ? 

Moore. Ay, strike me, it is ! And wot we've got 
to do is to put up the Excise. 

Smith. It's the last plant in the shrubbery, Deakin, 
and it's breaking George the gardener's heart, it is. 
We really must ! 

Brodie. Must we ? 

Moore. Must's the thundering word. I mean 
business, I do. 

Brodie. That's lucky. I don't. 

Moore. O, you don't, don't you ? 

Brodie. I do not. 

Moore. Then p'raps you'll tell us wot you thun- 
dering will do ? 

Brodie. What do I mean ? I mean that you and 
that merry-andrew shall walk out of this room and 
this house. Do you suppose, you blockheads, that I 
am blind ? I'm the Deacon, am I not ? I've been 
your king and your commander. I've led you, and 
fed you, and thought for you with this head. And 
you think to steal a march upon a man like me ? I 
see you through and through [I know you like the 
clock] ; I read your thoughts like print. Brodie, you 
thought, has money, and won't do the job. There- 
fore, you thought, we must rook him to the heart. 
And therefore, you put up your idiot cockney. And 
now you come round, and dictate, and think sure of 

59 



Sc.8 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

II your Excise ? Sure ? Arc you sure I'll let you pack 
yy with a whole skin ? By my soul, but I've a mind to 
pistol you like dogs. Out of this ! Out, I say, and 
soil my home no more. 

Moore {siifing). Now look 'ere. Mr. bloody 
Deacon Brodie, you see this 'ere chair of yours, don't 
you ? Wot I ses to you is, here I am, I ses, and here 
I mean to stick. That's my motto. Who the devil are 
you to do the high and mighty ? You make all you can 
out of us, don't you ? and when one of your plants get 
cross, you order us out of the ken ? Muck ! That's 
wot I think of you. Muck ! Don't you get coming the 
nob over me, Mr. Deacon Brodie, or I'll smash you. 

Brodie. You will ? 

Moore. Ay will I. If I thundering well swing for 
it. And as for clearing out ? Muck ! Here I am, 
and here I stick. Clear out ? You try it on. I'm a 
man, I am. 

Brodie. This is plain speaking. 

Moore. Plain ? Wot about your father as can't 
walk ? Wot about your fine-madam sister ? Wot 
about the stone-jug, and the dock, and the rope in 
the open street ? Is that plain ? If it ain't, you let 
me know, and I'll spit it out so as it'll raise the roof 
off this 'ere ken. Plain ! I'm that cove's master, and 
I'll make it plain enough for him. 

Brodie. What do you want of me ? 

Moore. Wot do I want of you ? Now you speak 
sense. Leslie's is wot I want of you. The Excise is 

60 



Sc. 8 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

wot I want of you. Leslie's to-night and the Excise II 
to-morrow. That's wot I want of you, and wot I jy 
thundering well mean to get. 

Brodie. Damn you ! 

Moore. Amen. But you've got your orders. 

Brodie. {with pistol). Orders? hey ? orders ? 

Smith {between them). Deacon, Deacon ! — Badger, 
are you mad ? 

Moore. Muck! That's my motto. What I ses is, 
has he got his orders or has he not ? That's wot's 
the matter with him. 

Smith. Deacon, half a tick. Humphrey, I'm only 
a light weight, and you fight at twelve stone ten, but 
I'm damned if I'm going to stand still and see you 
hitting a pal when he's down. 

Moore. Muck ! That's wot I think of you. 

Smith. He's a cut above us, ain't he ? He never 
sold his backers, did he ? We couldn't have done 
without him, could we ? You dry up about his old 
man, and his sister ; and don't go on hitting a pal 
when he's knocked out of time and cannot hit back, 
for, damme, I will not stand it. 

Moore. Amen to you. But I'm cock of this here 
thundering walk, and that cove's got his orders. 

Brodie {putting pistol on bench). I give in. I 
will do your work for you once more. Leslie's to-night 
and the Excise to-morrow. If that is enough, if you 
have no more . . . orders, you may count it as done. 

Moore. Fen larks. No rotten shirking, mind. 

6i 



Sc.8 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

II Brodie. I have passed you my word. And now 

jY you have said what you came to say, you must go. I 
have business here ; but two hours hence I am at 
your . . . orders. Where shall I await you ? 

Moore. What about that woman's place of yours ? 
Brodie. Your will is my law. 
Moore. That's good enough. Now, Dook. 
Smith. Bye-bye, my William. Don't forget. 

SCENE IX 

3c. Q Brodie. Trust me. No man forgets his vice, 
you dogs, or forgives it either. It must be done : 
Leslie's to-night and the Excise to-morrow. It 
shall be done. This settles it. They used to fetch 
and carry for me, and now . . . I've licked their 
boots, have I ? I'm their man, their tool, their 
chattel. It's the bottom rung of the ladder of 
shame. I sound with my foot, and there's nothing 
underneath but the black emptiness of damnation. 
Ah, Deacon, Deacon, and so this is where you've 
been travelling all these years ; and it's for this that 
you learned French ! The gallows . . . God help 
me, it begins to dog me like my shadow. There's a 
step to take ! And the jerk upon your spine ! How's 
a man to die with a night-cap on ? I've done with 
this. Over yonder, across the great ocean, is a new 
land, with new characters, and perhaps new lives. 
The sun shines, and the bells ring, and it's a place 
where men live gladly ; and the Deacon himself can 
62 



Sc. 9 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

walk without terror, and begin again like a new-born 1 1 
child. It must be good to see day again and not to jy 
fear ; it must be good to be one's self with all men. 
Happy like a child, wise like a man, free like God's 
angels . . . should I work these hands off and eat crusts, 
there were a life to make me young and good again. 
And it's only over the sea ! O man, you have been 
blind, and now your eyes are opened. It was half 
a life's nightmare, and now you are awake. Up, 
Deacon, up, it's hope that's at the window ! Mary ! 
Mary ! Mary ! 

SCENE X 
Brodie, Mary, Old Brodie 

(Brodie has fallen into a chair, with his face upon Cp jq 
the table. Enter Mary, by the side door, push- 
ing her father' s chair. She is supposed to have 
advanced far enough for stage purposes before 
Brodie is aware of her. He starts up, and runs 
to her.) 

Brodie. Look up, my lass, look up, and be a 
woman ! I . . . O kiss me, Mary ! give me a kiss 
for my good news. 

Mary. Good news, Will ? Is it changed ? 

Brodie. Changed ? Why, the world's a different 
colour ! It was night, and now it's broad day, and I 
trust myself again. You must wait, dear, wait, and I 
must work and work ; and before the week is out, as 
sure as God sees me, I'll have made you happy. O 

63 



Sc. lo 



DEACON BRODIE 

II you may think me broken, hounds, but the Deacon's 
jy not the man to be run down ; trust him, he shall turn 
a corner yet, and leave you snarling ! And you, Poll, 
you. I've done nothing for you yet ; but, please 
God, I'll make your life a life of gold ; and wherever 
I am, I'll have a part in your happiness, and you'll 
know it, by heaven ! and bless me. 

Mary. O Willie, look at him ; I think he hears 
you, and is trying to be glad with us. 

Old Brodie. My son — Deacon— better man than 
I was. 

Brodie. O for God's sake, hear him ! 

Mary. He is quite happy, Will, and so am I . . . 
so am I. 

Brodie. Hear me, Mary. This is a big moment 
in our two lives. I swear to you by the father here 
between us that it shall not be fault of mine if this 
thing fails ; if this ship founders you have set your 
hopes in. I swear it by our father ; I swear it by 
God's judgments. 

Mary. I want no oaths. Will. 

Brodie. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, 
prayers. Pray night and day upon your knees. I 
must move mountains. 

Old Brodie. A wise son maketh — maketh 

Brodie. A glad father ? And does your son, the 
Deacon, make you glad ? O heaven of heavens, if I 
were a good man. 

Act-Drop 

64 



ACT III 

TABLEAU V 

King's Evid ence 

The Stage represents a J>ublic place in Edinburgh 

SCENE I 



III 



Jean, Smith, and Moore V 

Sc. I 

( They loiter in L. , and stand looking about as for 
somebody not there. Smith is hat in hand to 
Jean ; Moore as usual.) 

Moore. Wot did I tell you ? Is he 'ere, or ain't 
he ? Now, then. Slink by name and Slink by nature, 
that's wot's the matter with him. 

Jean. He'll no be lang ; he's regular enough, if 
that was a'. 

Moore. I'd regular him ; I'd break his back. 

Smith. Badger, you brute, you hang on to the 

65 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

III lessons of your dancing-master. None but the gen- 
y teel deserves the fair ; does they, Duchess ? 



Sc. I 



Moore. O rot ! Did I insult the blowen ? Wot's 
the matter with me is Slink Ainslie. 

Smith. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him 
forty winks, and he'll turn up as fresh as clean saw- 
dust and as respectable as a new Bible. 

Moore. That's right enough ; but I ain't agoing 
to stand here all day for him. I'm for a drop of 
something short, I am. You tell him I showed you 
that [showing his doubled fist). That's wot's the 
matter with him. [He lurches out, R) 



SCENE II 

Smith and Jean, to whom Hunt, a7id afterwards 
Moore 

Sc. 2 Smith [critically). No, Duchess, he has not good 
manners. 

Jean. Ay, he's an impident man. 

Smith. So he is, Jean ; and for the matter of that 
he ain't the only one. 

Jean. Geordie, I want nae mair o' your nonsense, 
mind. 

Smith. There's our old particular the Deacon, 
now. Why is he ashamed of a lovely woman ? That's 
not my idea of the Young Chevalier, Jean. If I had 
luck, we should be married, and retire to our estates 

66 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

in the country, shouldn't us? and go to church and HI 
be happy, like the nobility and gentry. Y 

Jean. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye'd mairry o 
me ? 

Smith. Mean it ? What else has ever been the 
'umble petition of your honest but well-meaning 
friend, Roman, and fellow-countryman ? I know the 
Deacon's your man, and I know he's a cut above 
G. S. ; but he won't last, Jean, and I shall. 

Jean. Ay, I'm muckle ta'en up wi' him ; wha could 
help it ? 

Smith. Well, and my sort don't grow on apple- 
trees either. 

Jean. Ye're a fine, cracky, neebourly body, 
Geordie, if ye wad just let me be. 

Smith. I know I ain't a Scotchman born. 

Jean. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o' ye 
even for that ; if ye would just let me be. 

[Hunt [entering behind, aside). Are they thick ? 
Anyhow, it's a second chance.] 

Smith. But he won't last, Jean ; and when he 
leaves you, you come to me. Is that your taste 
in pastry ? That's the kind of harticle that I pre- 
sent. 

Hunt {surprising them as in Tableau /.). Why, 
you're the very parties I was looking for ! 

Jean. Mercy me ! 

Smith. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind. 

Hunt. [Now this is what I call a picter of good 

67 



Sc. 2 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

III fortune.] Ain't it strange I should have dropped 
Y across you comfortable and promiscuous like this ? 

Jean [stolidly). I hope ye're middling weal, Mr. 
Hunt? {Going.) Mr. Smith ! 

Smith. Mrs. Watt, ma'am ! {Going.) 

Hunt. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one 
lady's man to another, turn about's fair play. You've 
had your confab, and now I'm going to have mine. 
[Not that I've done with you ; you stand by and 
wait.] Ladies first, George, ladies first ; that's the 
size of it. (To Jean, aside.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I take 
it you ain't a natural fool ? 

Jean. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt. 

Smith {interfering). Jean . . . ! 

Hunt {keeping him off). Half a tick, George. {To 
Jean.) Mrs. Watt, I've a warrant in my pocket. 
One, two, three : will you peach? 

Jean. Whatten kind of a word'll that be ? 

Smith. Mum it is, Jean ! 

Hunt, When you've done dancing, George ! 
(21? Jean.) It ain't a pretty expression, my dear, I 
own it. Will you blow the gaff is perhaps more 
tenderer. 

Jean. I think ye've a real strange way o' expressin' 
yoursel'. 

Hunt (/^ Jean). I can't waste time on you, my girl. 
It's now or never. Will you turn king's evidence ? 

Jean. I think ye'U have made a mistake, like. 

Hunt. Well, I'm . . . ! {Separatiiig them.) [No, 

68 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

not yet ; don't push me.] George's turn now. {To HI 
George.) George, I've a warrant in my pocket. y 

Smith. As per usual, Jerry? c ^ 

Hunt. Now I want king's evidence. 

Smith. Ah ! so you came a cropper with her, Jerry. 
Pride had a fall. 

Hunt. A free pardon and fifty shiners down. 

Smith. A free pardon, Jerry ? 

Hunt. Don't I tell you so ? 

Smith. And fifty down ? fifty ? 

Hunt, On the nail. 

Smith. So you came a cropper with her, and then 
you tried it on with me ? 

Hunt. I suppose you mean you're a born idiot ? 

Smith. What I mean is, Jerry, that you've broke 
my heart. I used to look up to you like a party 
might to Julius Csesar. One more of boyhood's 
dreams gone pop. {Etttcr MoORE, L.) 

Hunt [to both). Come, then, I'll take the pair, and 
be damned to you. Free pardon to both, fifty down 
and the Deacon out of the way. I don't care for you 
commoners, it's the Deacon I want. 

Jean {looking off stolidly). I think the kirks are 
scalin'. There seems to be mair people in the streets. 

Hunt. O that's the way, is it ? Do you know that 
I can hang you, my woman, and your fancy man as 
well ? 

Jean. I daur say ye would like fine, Mr. Hunt ; 
and here's my service to you. {Going.) 

69 



Sc.3 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

III Hunt. George, don't you be a tomfool, anyway. 

Y Think of the blowen here, and have brains for two. 

Q Smith {going). Ah, Jerry, if you knew anything, 

how different you would talk ! ( T/uy go off to- 
gether, R.) 

SCENE III 

Hunt, Moore 

Hunt. Half a tick, Badger. You're a man of 
parts, you are ; you're solid, you're a true-born 
Englishman ; you ain't a Jerry-go-Nimble like him. 
Do you know what your pal the Deacon's worth to 
you ? Fifty golden Georges and a free pardon. No 
questions asked, and no receipts demanded. What 
do you say ? Is it a deal ? 

Moore {as to himself). Muck. {He goes out R.) 

SCENE IV 

Hunt, to whom Ainslie 

Sc A Hunt {looking after then ruefully). And these 
were the very parties I was looking for ! [Ah, Jerry, 
Jerry, if they knew this at the office !] Well, the 
market price of that 'ere two hundred is a trifle on the 
decline and fall. {Looking L.) Hullo ! {Slapping 
his thigh). Send me victorious ! It's king's evidence 
on two legs. {Advancing with great cordiality to 
meet Ainslie, who enters L.) And so your name's 
Andrew Ainslie, is it ? As I was saying, you're the 
70 



Sc. 4 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

very party I was looking for. Ain't it strange, now, JJJ 
that I should have dropped across your comfortable y 

and promiscuous like this ? 

' AiNSLlE. I dinna ken wha ye are, an' I'm ill for 
my bed. 

Hunt. Let your bed wait, Andrew. I want a little 
chat with you ; just a quiet little sociable wheeze. 
Just about our friends, you know. About Badger 
Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers, 
and Deacon Brodie, Andrew. Particularly Deacon 
Brodie. 

AiNSLiE. They're nae friens o' mine's, mister. I 
ken naething an' naebody. An' noo I'll get to my 
bed, wulln't I ? 

Hunt. We're going to have our little talk out 
first. After that perhaps I'll let you go, and perhaps 
I won't. It all depends on how we get along together. 
Now, in a general way, Andrew, and speaking of a 
man as you find him, I'm all for peace and quietness 
myself. That's my usual game, Andrew, but when 
I do make a dust I'm considered by my friends to be 
rather a good hand at it. So don't you tread upon 
the worm. 

AiNSLlE. But I'm sayin' 

Hunt. You leave that to me, Andrew. You shall 
do your pitch presently. I'm first on the ground, 
and I lead off. With a question, Andrew. Did you 
ever hear in your life of such a natural curiosity as a 
Bow Street Runner ? 

71 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

III AiNSLlE. Aiblins ay an' aiblins no. 



V 

Sc. 4 



Hunt. ' Aiblins ay and aiblins no.* Very good 
indeed, Andrew. Now, I'll ask you another. Did 
you ever see a Bow Street Runner, Andrew? With 
the naked eye, so to speak ? 

AiNSLIE. What's your wull ? 

Hunt. Artful bird ! Now since we're getting on 
so cosy and so free, I'll ask you another, Andrew. 
Should you like to see a Bow Street Runner ? {Pro- 
ducing staff) 'Cos, if so, you've only got to cast 
your eyes on me. Do you queer the red weskit, 
Andrew ? Pretty colour, ain't it ? So nice and warm 
for the winter too. (Ainslie dives. Hunt collars 
him.) No, you don't. Not this time. Run away 
like that before we've finished our little conversation ? 
You're a nice young man, you are. Suppose we in- 
troduce our wrists into these here darbies ? Now we 
shall get along cosier and freer than ever. Want to 
lie down, do you ? All right ! anything to oblige. 

Ainslie (grovelling). It wasna me, it wasna me. 
It's bad companions ; I've been lost wi' bad com- 
panions an' the drink. An' O mister, ye'll be a kind 
gentleman to a puir lad, an' me sae weak, an' fair 
rotten wi' the drink an' that. Ye've a bonnie kind 
heart, my dear, dear gentleman ; ye wadna hang 
sitchan a thing as me. I'm no fit to hang. They 
ca' me the Cannleworm ! An' I'll dae somethin' for 
ye, wulln't I ? An' ye'll can hang the ithers ? 

Hunt. I thought I hadn't mistook my man. Now, 

72 



Sc. 4 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

you look here, Andrew Ainslie, you're a bad lot. JJI 
I've evidence to hang you fifty times over. But the y 

Deacon is my mark. Will you peach, or won't you ? 
You blow the gaff, and I'll pull you through. You 
don't, and I'll scragg you as sure as my name's 
Jerry Hunt. 

Ainslie. I'll dae onything. It's the hanging fleys 
me. I'll dae onything, onything no to hang. 

Hunt. Don't lie crawling there, but get up and 
answer me like a man. Ain't this Deacon Brodie the 
fine workman that's been doing all these tip-topping 
burglaries ? 

Ainslie. It's him, mister ; it's him. That's the 
man. Ye're in the very bit. Deacon Brodie. I'll 
can tak' ye to his vera door. 

Hunt. How do you know? 

Ainslie. I gi'ed him a han' wi' them a'. It was 
him an' Badger Moore, and Geordie Smith ; an' they 
gart me gang wi' them whether or no ; I'm that weak, 
an' whiles I'm donner'd wi' the drink. But I ken a', 
an' I'll tell a'. And O kind gentleman, you'll speak 
to their lordships for me, an' I'll no be hangit . . . 
I'll no be hangit, wuU I ? 

Hunt. But you shared, didn't you ? I wonder 
what share they thought you worth. How much did 
you get for last night's performance down at Mother 
Clarke's ? 

Ainslie. Just five pund, mister. Five pund. As 
sure's deith it wadna be a penny mair. No but I 

73 



Sc. 4 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

I[I askit mair : I did that ; I'll no deny it, mister. But 
Y Badger kickit me, an' Geordie, he said a bad sweir, 

an' made he'd cut the liver out o' me, an' catch fish 
wi't. It's been that way frae the first : an aith an' 
a bawbee was aye guid eneuch for puir Andra. 

Hunt. Well, and why did they do it ? I saw 
Jemmy dance a hornpipe on the table, and booze the 
company all round, when the Deacon was gone. 
What made you cross the fight, and play booty with 
your own man ? 

AiNSLlE. Just to make him rob the Excise, mister. 
They're wicked, wicked men. 

Hunt. And is he right for it ? 

AiNSLlE. Ay is he. 

Hunt. By jingo! When's it for ? 

AiNSLlE. Dear, kind gentleman, I dinna rightly 
ken : the Deacon's that sair angered wi' me. I'm to 
get my orders frae Geordie the nicht. 

Hunt. O, you're to get your orders from Geordie, 
are you ? Now look here, Ainslie. You know me. 
I'm Hunt the Runner ; I put Jemmy Rivers in the 
jug this morning ; I've got you this evening. I mean 
to wind up with the Deacon. You understand ? All 
right. Then just you listen. I'm going to take these 
here bracelets off, and send you home to that cele- 
brated bed of yours. Only, as soon as you've seen 
the Dook you come straight round to me at Mr. 
Procurator-Fiscal's, and let me know the Dook's views. 
One word, mind, and . . . cl'k ! It's a bargain ? 

74 



V 

Sc. 4 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

AiNSLiE. Never you fear that. I'll tak' my bannet JH 
an' come straucht to ye. Eh God, I'm glad it's nae 
mair nor that to start vvi'. An' may the Lord bless 
ye, dear, kind gentleman, for your kindness. May 
the Lord bless ye. 

Hunt. You pad the hoof. 

AiNSLiE {going out). An' so I wull, vvulln't I not? 
An' bless, bless ye while there's breath in my body, 
wulln't I not ? 

Hunt {solus). You're a nice young man, Andrew 
Ainslie. Jemmy Rivers and the Deacon in two days ! 
By jingo ! {He dances an instant gravety, whistling 
to himself.) Jerry, that 'ere little two hundred of ours 
is as safe as the bank. 

TABLEAU VI 

Unmasked 

The Stage represents a room in Leslie^ s house. A practicable 'ivindoiu, 

C, through which a band of strotig mootilight falls into the 

room. Near the ivindoiu a strong-box. A practicable 

door in laing, L. Candlelight. 

SCENE I ^j 

Leslie, Lawson, Mary, seated. Brodie at back, Sc. I 
walking between the windows and the strong-box. 

Lawson. Weel, weel, weel, weel, nae doubt. 
Leslie. Mr. Lawson, I am perfectly satisfied with 
Brodie's word ; I will wait gladly. 

75 



Sc. I 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

III Lawson. I have nothing to say against that. 

Yj Brodie (behind Lawson). Nor for it. 

Lawson. For it ? for it, William ? Ye're perfectly 
richt there. {To Leslie.) Just you do what William 
tells you ; ye canna do better than that. 

Mary. Dear uncle, I see you are vexed ; but Will 
and I are perfectly agreed on the best course. Walter 
and I are young. Oh, we can wait ; we can trust 
each other. 

Brodie {from behind). Leslie, do you think it safe 
to keep this strong-box in your room ? 

Leslie. It does not trouble me. 

Brodie. I would not. 'Tis close to the window. 

Leslie. It's on the right side of it. 

Brodie. I give you my advice : I would not. 

Lawson. He may be right there too, Mr. Leslie. 

Brodie. I give him fair warning : it's not safe. 

Leslie. I have a different treasure to concern my- 
self about ; if all goes right with that I shall be well 
contented. 

Mary. Walter! 

Lawson. Ay, bairns, ye speak for your age. 

Leslie. Surely, sir, for every age ; the ties of blood, 
of love, of friendship, these are life's essence. 

Mary. And for no one is it truer than my uncle. 
If he live to be a thousand, he will still be young in 
heart, full of love, full of trust. 

Lawson. Ah, lassie, it's a wicked world. 

Mary. Yes,you are out of sorts to-day; we know that. 

76 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Leslie. Admitted that you know more of life, sir ; HI 
admitted (if you please) tlaat the world is wicked ; yet yj 
you do not lose trust in those you love. c 

Lawson. Weel ... ye get gliffs, ye ken. 

Leslie. I suppose so. We can all be shaken for 
a time ; but not, I think, in our friends. We are not 
deceived in them ; in the few that we admit into our 
hearts. 

Mary. Never in these. 

Leslie. We know these {to Brodie), and we think 
the world of them. 

Brodie (at back). We are more acquainted with 
each other's tailors, believe me. You, Leslie, are a 
very pleasant creature. My uncle Lawson is the 
Procurator-Fiscal. I — What am I ? — I am the 
Deacon of the Wrights, my ruffles are generally 
clean. And you think the world of me ? Bravo ! 

Leslie. Ay, and 1 think the world of you. 

Brodie {at back, pointing to Lawson). Ask him. 

Lawson. Hoot-toot. A wheen nonsense : an 
honest man's an honest man, and a randy thiefs 
a randy thief, and neither mair nor less. Mary, my 
lamb, it's time you were hame, and had your beauty 
sleep. 

Mary. Do you not come with us ? 

Lawson. I gang the ither gate, my lamb. (Leslie 
helps Mary on with her cloak, and they say farewell 
at back. Brodie, /(?r the first time, comes front with 
Lawson.) Sae ye've consented ? 

77 



Sc. I 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

in Brodie. As you see. 

Yj Lawson. Ye'Il can pay it back ? 

Brodie. 1 will. 

Lawson. And how ? That's what I'm wonderin' 
to mysel'. 

Brodie. Ay, God knows that. 

Mary. Come, Will. 



SCENE II 

Leslie, Lawson (wrapping up) 

5c 2 Leslie. I wonder what ails Brodie. 

Lawson. How should I ken ? What should I ken 
that ails him ? 

Leslie. He seemed angry even with you. 

Lawson {impatient). Hoot awa'. 

Leslie. Of course, I know. But you see, on the 
very day when our engagement is announced, even 
the best of men may be susceptible. You yourself 
seem not quite pleased. 

Lawson {with great irritation). I'm perfectly 
pleased. I'm perfectly delighted. If I werena an 
auld man, I'd be just beside mysel' wi' happiness. 

Leslie. Well, I only fancied. 

Lawson. Ye had nae possible excuse to fancy. 
Fancy ? Perfect trash and nonsense. Look at 
yersel'. Ye look like a ghaist, ye're white-like, ye're 
black aboot the een ; and do ye find me deavin' ye 

78 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

wi' fancies? Or William Brodie either? I'll say HI 
that for him. Yj 

Leslie. 'Tis not sorrow that alters my complexion ; q /, 
I've something else on hand. Come, I'll tell you, 
under seal. I've not been in bed till daylight for a 
week. 

Lawson. Weel, there's nae sense in the like o' 
that. 

Leslie. Gad, but there is though. Why, Procura- 
tor, this is town's business ; this is a municipal affair ; 
I'm a public character. Why ? Ah, here's a nut for 
the Crown Prosecutor ! I'm a bit of a' party to a 
robbery. 

Lawson. Guid guide us, man, what d'ye mean ? 

Leslie. You shall hear. A week ago to-night, I 
was passing through this very room without a candle 
on my way to bed, when . . . what should I see, but 
a masked man fumbling at that window ! How he 
did the Lord knows. I suspect, Procurator, it was 
not the first he'd tried . . . for he opened it as 
handily as his own front door. 

Lawson. Preserve me ! Another of thae robberies ! 

Leslie. That's it. And, of course, I tried to seize 
him. But the rascal was too quick. He' was down 
and away in an instant. You never saw a thing so 
daring and adroit. 

Lawson. Is that a' ? Ye're a bauld lad, I'll say 
that for ye. I'm glad it wasna waur. 

Leslie. Yes, that's all plain sailing. But here's 

79 



VI 
Sc. 2 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

III the hitch. Why didn't I tell the Procurator-Fiscal ? 
You never thought of that. 

Lawson. No, man. Why ? 

Leslie. Aha! There's the riddle. Will you guess? 
No ? . . . I thought I knew the man. 

Lawson. What d'ye say ? 

Leslie. I thought I knew him. 

Lawson. Wha was't ? 

Leslie. Ah, there you go beyond me. That I 
cannot tell. 

Lawson. As God sees ye, laddie, are ye speaking 
truth ? 

Leslie. Well ... of course ! 

Lawson. The haill truth ? 

Leslie. All of it. Why not ? 

Lawson. Man, I'd a kind o' gliff. 

Leslie. Why, what were you afraid of? Had you 
a suspicion ? 

Lawson. Me ? Me a suspicion ? Ye're daft, sir ; 
and me the Crown Offeecial ! ... Eh man, I'm a' 
shakin' . . . And sae ye thocht ye kcnnt him ? 

Leslie. I did that. And what's more, I've sat 
every night in case of his return. I promise you, 
Procurator, he shall not slip me twice. Meanwhile 
I'm worried and put out. You understand how such 
a fancy will upset a man. I'm uneasy with my friends 
and on bad terms with my own conscience. I keep 
watching, spying, comparing, putting two and two 
together, hunting for resemblances until my head 

80 



Sc. 2 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

goes round. It's like a puzzle in a dream. Only HI 
yesterday I thought I had him. And who d'you yj 
think it was ? 

Lawson. Wha? Whawas't? Speak, Mr. Leslie, 
speak. I'm an auld man ; dinna forget that. 

Leslie. I name no names. It would be unjust to 
him ; and, upon my word, it was so silly it would be 
unfair to me. However, here I sit, night after night. 
I mean him to come back ; come back he shall ; and 
I'll tell you who he was next morning. 

Lawson. Let sleeping dogs lie, Mi>. Leslie ; ye 
dinna ken what ye micht see. And then, leave him 
alane, he'll come nae mair. And sitting up a' nicht 
. . . it's d, factum unprestabile, as we say : a thing 
impossible to man. Gang ye to your bed, like a guid 
laddie, and sleep lang and soundly, and bonnie, 
bonnie dreams to ye! (Without.^ Let sleeping 
dogs lie, and gang ye to your bed. 

SCENE III 

Leslie 

Leslie {calling). In good time, never fear ! {He Cp 
carefully bolts and chains the door.) The old gentle- 
man seems upset. What for, I wonder ? Has he 
had a masked visitor ? Why not ? It's the fashion. 
Out with the lights. {Blows out the candles. The 
stage is only lighted by the moon through the window.) 
He is sure to come, one night or other. He must 

8i 



J 



Sc 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

III come. Right or wrong, I feel it in the air. Man, but 
Yj I know you, I know you somewhere. That trick of 
the shoulders, the hang of the clothes — whose are 
they ? Where have I seen them ? And then, that 
single look of the eye, that one glance about the room 
as the window opened ... it is almost friendly ; I 
have caught it over the glass's rim ! If it should be 
. , . his ? No, his it is not. 

Watchman {without). Past ten o'clock, and a fine 
moonlight night. 

Another [further away). Past ten o'clock, and 
all's well. 

Leslie. Past ten ? Ah, there's a long night before 
you and me, watchmen. Heavens, what a trade ! 
But it will be something to laugh over with Mary and 
. . . with him ? Damn it, the delusion is too strong 
for me. It's a thing to be ashamed of. ' We Brodies ' : 
how she says it ! ' We Brodies and our Deacon ' : 
what a pride she takes in it, and how good it sounds 
to me ! ' Deacon of his craft, sir. Deacon of the . . .' 
(Brodie, masked, appears without at the window, 
which he proceeds to force.) Ha! I knew he'd come. 
I was sure of it. [He crouches near and >iearer to the 
window, keeping in the shade.) And I know you too. 
I swear I know you. 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

III 

SCENE IV VI 

Brodie, Leslie Sc. 4 

Brodie enters by the window with assurance and 
ease, closes it silently, and proceeds to traverse the 
room. As he moves, Leslie leaps upon and grapples 
him. 

Leslie. Take off that mask ! 

Brodie. Hands off! 

Leslie. Take off the mask ! / 

Brodie. Leave go, by God, leave go ! 

Leslie. Take it off! 

Brodie [overpowered). Leslie .... 

Leslie. Ah ! you know me ! {Succeeds in tearing 
off the jnask.) Brodie ! 

Brodie [in the moonlighf). Brodie. 

Leslie. You . . . you, Brodie, you ? 

Brodie. Brodie, sir, Brodie as you see. 

Leslie. What does it mean ? What does it mean, 
my God ? Were you here before ? Is this the sec- 
ond time ? Are you a thief, man ? are you a thief? 
Speak, speak, or I'll kill you. 

Brodie. I am a thief 

Leslie. And my friend, my own friend, and . . . 
Mary, Mary ! . . . Deacon, Deacon, for God's sake, 
no ! 

Brodie. God help me ! 

Leslie. * We Brodies ! We Brodies ! ' 

83 



VI 

Sc. 4 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

in Brodie. Leslie 

Leslie. Stand off! Don't touch me! You're a 
thief ! 

Brodie. Leslie, Leslie 

Leslie. A thief's sister ! Why are you here ? why 
are you here ? Tell me ! Why do you not speak ? 
Man, I know you of old. Are you Brodie, and have 
nothing to say ? 

Brodie. To say ? Not much — God help me — and 
commonplace, commonplace like sin. I was honest 
once ; I made a false step ; I couldn't retrace it ; 
and . . . that is all. 

Leslie. You have forgot the bad companions ! 

Brodie. I did forget them. They were there. 

Leslie. Commonplace ! Commonplace ! Do you 
speak to me, do you reason with me, do you make 
excuses ? You — a man found out, shamed, a liar, a 
thief — a man that's killed me, killed this heart in my 
body ; and you speak ! What am I to do ? I hold 
your life in my hand ; have you thought of that ? 
What am I to do ? 

Brodie. Do what you please ; you have me 
trapped. 

(Jean Watt is heard singing without two bars of 
' Wander iti' Willie,^ by way of signal.) 

Leslie. What is that ? 

Brodie. A signal. 

Leslie. What does it mean ? 

Brodie. Danger to me ; there is some one coming 

84 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Leslie. Danger to you ? Ill 

Brodie. Some one is coming. What are you yj 

going to do with me ? {A knock at the door.) c 

'L'tJiiA^ {after a pause). Sit down. {Knocking.) ' ' 

Brodie. What are you going to do with me ? 
Leslie. Sit down. (Brodie sits in darkest part 

of stage. Leslie opens door, and admits Lawson. 

Door open till end of Act.) 



SCENE V 
Brodie, Lawson, Leslie 

Lawson. This is an unco' time to come to your Cp 
door; but eh, laddie, I couldna bear to think o' ye 
sittin' your lane in the dark. 

Leslie. It was very good of you. 

Lawson. I'm no very fond of playing hidee in the 
dark mysel' ; and noo that I'm here 

Leslie. I will give you a light. {He lights the 
candles. Lights up.) 

Lawson. God A'michty ! William Brodie ! 

Leslie. Yes, Brodie was good enough to watch 
with me. 

Lawson. But he gaed awa' ... I dinna see . . . 
an' Lord be guid to us, the window's open ! 

Leslie. A trap we laid for them : a device of 
Brodie's. 

Brodie {to Lawson). Set a thief to catch a thief. 

85 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

III {Passing to Leslie, aside.) Walter Leslie, God will 
Yj reward. (Jean signals again.) 

SLawson. I dinna like that singin' at siccan a time 
^ o the nicht. 

Brodie. I must go. 

LawsON. Not one foot o' ye. I'm ower glad to 
find ye in guid hands. Ay, ye dinna ken how glad. 

Brodie {aside to Leslie). Get me out of this. 
There's a man there will stick at nothing. 

Leslie. Mr. Lawson, Brodie has done his shift. 
Why should we keep him? (Jean appears at the 
door, and signs to Brodie.) 

Lawson. Hoots! this is my trade. That's a bit 
o' ' Wanderin' Willie.' I've had it before me in 
precognitions ; that same stave has been used for a 
signal by some o' the very warst o' them. 

Brodie {aside to Leslie). Get me out of this. 
I'll never forget to-night. (Jean at door again.) 

Leslie. Well, good-night, Brodie. When shall 
we meet again ? 

Lawson. Not one foot o' him. (Jean at door.) I 
tell you, Mr. Leslie 

SCENE VI 

To these, Jean 

Cp (i Jean {from the door). Wullie, Wullie ! 

Lawson. Guid guide us, Mrs. Watt ! A dacent 
86 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

wumman like yoursel' ! Whatten a time o' nicht is HI 
this to come to folks' doors ? Yj 

Jean {to Brodie). Hawks, Wullie, hawks! o < 

Brodie. I suppose you know what you've done, 
Jean ? 

Jean. I had to come, Wullie, he wadna wait 
another minit. He wad have come himsel'. 

Brodie. This is my mistress. 

Lawson. William, dinna tell me nae mair. 

Brodie. I have told you so much. You may as 
well know all. That good man knows it already. 
Have you issued a warrant for me .... yet ? 

Lawson. No, no, man : not another word. 

Brodie [pointing to the window). That is my 
work. I am the man. Have you drawn the war- 
rant ? 

Lawson {breaking down) . Your father's son ! 

Leslie {to Lawson). My good friend ! Brodie, 
you might have spared the old man this. 

Brodie. I might have spared him years ago ; and 
you and my sister, and myself. I might . . . would 
God I had! {IVeeping himself.) Don't weep, my 
good old friend ; I was lost long since ; don't think 
of me ; don't pity me ; don't shame me with your 
pity ! I began this when I was a boy. I bound the 
millstone round my neck ; [it is irrevocable now,] 
and you must all suffer ... all suffer for me ! . . . 
[for this suffering remnant of what was once a man]. 
O God, that I can have fallen to stand here as I do 

87 



Sc.6 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

III now. My friend lying to save me from the gallows ; 
Yj my second father weeping tears of blood for my 
disgrace ! And all for what ? By what ? Because 
I had an open hand, because I was a selfish dog, 
because I loved this woman. 

Jean. O Wullie, and she lo'ed ye weel ! But come 
near me nae mair, come near me nae mair, my man ; 
keep wi' your ain folks . . . your ain dacent folks. 

Lawson. Mistress Watt, ye shall sit rent free as 
lang's there's breath in William Lawson's body. 

Leslie. You can do one thing still . . .for Mary's 
sake. You can save yourself; you must fly. 

Brodie. It is my purpose ; the day after to- 
morrow. It cannot be before. Then I will fly ; and 
O, as God sees me, I will strive to make a new and a 
better life, and to be worthy of your friendship, and 
of your tears . . . your tears. And to be worthy of 
you too, Jean ; for I see now that the bandage has 
fallen from my eyes ; I see myself, O how unworthy 
even of you. 

Leslie. Why not to-night ? 

Brodie. It cannot be before. There are many 
considerations. I must find money. 

Jean. Leave me, and the wean. Dinna fash 
yoursel' for us. 

Leslie {opening the strong-box, and pouring gold 
Jtpoft the table). Take this and go at once. 

Brodie. Not that . . . not the money that I came 
to steal ! 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Lawson. Tak' it, William; I'll pay him. HI 

Brodie. It is in vain. I cannot leave till I have yj 
said. There is a man ; I must obey him. If I slip o- f. 
my chain till he has done with me, the hue and cry 
will blaze about the country ; every outport will be 
shut ; I shall return to the gallows. He is a man 
that will stick at nothing. 



SCENE VII 

To these, MoORE ' 

Moore. Are you coming ? g^ y 

Brodie. I am coming. 

Moore (appearing m the door). Do you want us 
all to get thundering well scragged ? 
Brodie [going). There is my master. 



Act-Drop 



89 



ACT IV 

TABLEAU VII 

The Robbery 

The Stage represents the otUside of the Excise Office in ChessePs 

Court. At the back, L. C, an archivay opening on the High Street. 

The door of the Excise in luing, R.; the opposite side of the stage is 

lumbered -ivith barrels, packing-cases, etc. Moofilight ; the Excise 

Office casts a shadoiv over half the stage. A clock strikes the hour. 

A round of the City Guard, ivith halberts, lanterns, etc., enters and 

goes out again by the arch, after having exatnined the fastenings of 

the great door and the lutnber on the left. Cry without in the 

High Street : ' Ten by the bell, and a fine clear night.' 

Then enter cautiously by the arch. Smith and 

MooRK, ivith AiNSLlE loaded ivith tools. 

SCENE I 
Yjj Smith, Moore, Ainslie 

Sc. I Smith (entering first). Come on. Coast clear. 

Moore {after they have come to the front). Ain't 
he turned up yet ? 

Smith {to Ainslie). Now Maggot ! The fishing's 
a going to begin. 

Ainslie. Dinna cangle, Geordie. My backs fair 
broke. 

90 



IV 



Sc. 1 



DEACON BRODIB 

Moore. O muck ! Hand out them pieces. IV 

Smith. All right, Humptious ! {To Ainslie.) yjj 
You're a nice old sort for a rag-and-bone man : can't 
hold a bag open ! {Taking out tools.) Here they 
was. Here are the bunchums, one and two ; and 
jolly old keys was they. Here's the picklocks, crow- 
bars, and here's Lord George's pet bull's eye, his old 
and valued friend, the Cracksman's treasure ! 

Moore. Just like you. Forgot the rotten centrebit. 

Smith. That's all you know. Here she is, bless 
her ! Portrait of George as a gay hironmonger. 

Moore. O rot ! Hand it over, and keep yourself 
out of that there thundering moonlight. 

Smith {lighting lantern). All right, old mumble- 
peg. Don't you get carried away by the fire of old 
Rome. That's your motto. Here are the tools ; a 
perfect picter of the sublime and beautiful ; and all I 
hope is, that our friend and pitcher, the Deakin, will 
make a better job of it than he did last night. If he 
don't, I shall retire from the business — that's all ; 
and it'll be George and his little wife and a black 
footman till death do us part. 

Moore. O muck ! You're all jaw like a sheep's 
jimmy. That's my opinion of you. When did you 
see him last ? 

Smith. This morning ; and he looked as if he was 
rehearsing for his own epitaph. I never see such a 
change in a man. I gave him the office for to-night ; 
and was he grateful ? Did he weep upon my faithful 

91 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

IV bosom ? No ; he smiled upon me like a portrait of 
Yji the dear departed. I see his 'art was far away ; and 
o it broke my own to look at him. 

Moore. Muck ! Wot I ses is, if a cove's got that 
much of the nob about him, wot's the good of his 
working single-handed ? That's wot's the matter 
with him. 

Smith. Well, old Father Christmas, he ain't single 
handed to-qight, is he ? 

Moore. No, he ain't ; he's got a man with him 
to-night. 

Smith. Pardon me, Romeo ; two men, I think ? 

Moore. A man wot means business. If I'd a'bin 
with him last night, it ain't psalm-singin' would have 
got us off. Psalm-singin' ? Muck ! Let 'em try it 
on with me. 

AiNSLIE. Losh me, I heard a noise. {A/arm ; they 
crouch into the shadow and listen.) 

Smith. All serene. [To Ainslie.) Am I to cut 
that liver out of you ? Now, am I ? {A whistle.) 
'St! here we are. {Whistles a modj(latio7i, which is 
answered.) 

SCENE II 

To these Brodie 

Sc. 2 Moore. Waiting for you, Deacon. 
Brodie. I see. Everything ready ? 
Smith. All a-growing and a-blowing. 
92 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Brodie. Givf me the light. {Briefly examines IV 
tools and door with bulPs eye.) You, George, stand yjj 
by, and hand up the pieces. Ainslie, take the glim. Cp 
Moore, out and watch. 

Moore. I didn't come here to do sentry-go, I 
didn't. 

Brodie. You came here to do as I tell you. 
(Moore goes tip slowly.) Second bunch, George. 
I know the lock. Steady with the glim. {At work.) 
No good. Give me the centrebit. 

Smith. Right. {Work continues. Ainslie drops 
lantern.) 

Brodie. Curse you ! {Throttling atid kicking him.) 
You shake, and you shake, and you can't even hold 
a light for your betters. Hey ? 

Ainslie. Eh Deacon, Deacon . . . 

Smith. Now Ghost ! {With lantern.) 

Brodie. 'St, Moore ! 

Moore. Wot's the row ? 

Brodie. Take you the light. 

Moore (/^Ainslie). Wo'j' yershakin'at? (/wV--^-^ 
him.) 

Brodie {to Ainslie). Go you, and see if you're 
good at keeping watch. Inside the arch. And if you 
let a footfall pass, I'll break your back. (AiNSLlE 
retires) Steady with the light. [At work with 
centrebit.) Hand up number four, George. {At work 
with picklock^ That has it. 

Smith. Well done, our side. 

93 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

IV Brodie. Now the crowbar! {At work.) That's 

yjj it. Put down the gUm, Badger, and help at the 



Sc. 2 



wrench. Your whole weight, men ! Put your backs 
to it ! {While they work at the bar, Brodie stands 
by, dusting his hands with a pockct-Jiandkerchief. 
As the door opens.) Voila / In with you. 

Moore {entering with light). Mucking fine work 
too, Deacon ! 

Brodie. Take up the irons, George ! 

Smith. How about the P(h)antom ? 

Brodie. Leave him to me. I'll give him a look. 
{Enters office.) 

Smith {following). Houp-lk ! 

SCENE III 

AiNSLlE ; afterwards Brodie ; afterwards HUNT 
and Officers 

3c. 'I AiNSLIE. Ca' ye that mainners ? Ye're grand 

gentry by your way o't ! Eh sirs, my bench ! Ay, 
that was the Badger. Man, but ye'll look bonnie 
hangin' ! {A faint whistle.) Lord's sake, what's 
thon ? Ay, it'll be Hunt an' his lads. {Whistle re- 
peated.) Losh me, what gars him whustle, whustle ? 
Does he think me deaf? {Goes up. Brodie enters 
from office, stands an instant, and sees Jiim making a 
signal through the arch.) 

Brodie. Rats ! Rats ! {Hides L. among lumber. 
Enter noiselessly through arch Hunt ^w^Officers.) 
94 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Hunt. Birds caught ? IV 

AiNSLiE. They're a' ben the house, mister. yjj 

Hunt. All three ? c - 

AiNSLiE. The hale set, mister. * '^ 

Brodie. Liar ! 

Hunt. Mum, lads, and follow me. (Exit, with his 
men, into office. Brodie seen with dagger.) 
Hunt. In the King's name ! \ 

Moore. Muck! {.{Within.) 

Smith. Go it, Badger. i 

Hunt. Take 'em alive, boys ! j , 

AiNSLiE. Eh, but that's avvfu'. {The Deacon leaps 
out and stabs him. He falls without a cry.) 
Brodie. Saved! {He goes 02(t by the arch.) 

SCENE IV 

Hunt and Officers ; with Smith a}id Moore 
handcuffed. Signs of a severe struggle 

Hunt (entering). Bring 'em along, lads! (Looking Cp . 
at prisoners with lantern.) Pleased to see you again. 
Badger. And you, too, George. But I'd rather have 
seen your principal. Where's he got to ? 

Moore. To hell, I hope. 

Hunt. Always the same pretty flow of language, I 
see, Hump. (Looking at burglary with lantern.) A 
very tidy piece of work, Dook ; very tidy ! Much too 
good for you. Smacks of a fine tradesman. It was 
the Deacon, I suppose ? 

9S 



Sc. 4 



DEACON BRODIE 

IV Smith. You ought to know G. S. better by this 

VII time, Jerry. 

Hunt. All right, your Grace : we'll talk it over 
with the Deacon himself. Where's the jackal ? 
Here, you, Ainslie! Where are you? By jingo, I 
thought as much. Stabbed to the heart and dead 
as a herring ! 

Smith. Bravo ! 

Hunt. More of the Deacon's work, I guess ? Does 
him credit too, don't it. Badger ? 

Moore. Muck. Was that the thundering cove 
that peached ? 

Hunt. That was the thundering cove. 

MoORE. And is he corpsed ? 

Hunt. I should just about reckon he was. 

MoORE. Then, damme, I don't mind swinging ! 

Hunt. We'll talk about that presently. M'Intyre 
and Stewart, you get a stretcher, and take that 
rubbish to the office. Pick it up ; it's only a dead 
informer. Hand these two gentlemen over to Mr. 
Procurator-Fiscal, with Mr. Jerry Hunt's compli- 
ments. Johnstone and Syme, you come along with 
me. ril bring the Deacon round myself. 



Act-Drop 



96 



ACT V 

TABLEAU VIII 
The Open Door 

The Stage represents the DeacoiCs room, as in Tableau I. Fire- 
light. Stage dark. A pause. Then knocking at the door, C. 
Cries without of ' Willie ! ' ' Mr. Brodie ! ' 
The door is burst open 

SCENE I y 

Doctor, Mary, a Maidservant with lights viii 

Doctor. The apartment is unoccupied. Sc. I 

Mary. Dead, and he not here ! 

Doctor. The bed has not been slept in. The 
counterpane is not turned down. 

Mary. It is not true ; it cannot be true. 

Doctor. My dear young lady, you must have 
misunderstood your brother's language. 

Mary. O no ; that I did not. That I am sure I 
did not. 

Doctor (looking at door). The strange thing is 
.... the bolt. 

Servant. It's unco strange. 

97 



Sc. I 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

V Doctor. Well, we have acted for the best, 

y^^j Servant. Sir, I dinna think this should gang nae 

further. 

Doctor. The secret is in our keeping. Affliction 
is enough without scandal. 

Mary. Kind heaven, what does it mean ? 

Doctor. I think there is no more to be done. 

Mary. I am here alone, Doctor ; you pass my 
uncle's door ? 

Doctor. The Procurator-Fiscal ? I shall make it 
my devoir. Expect him soon. {Goes oui wii/i Maid.) 

Mary [hastily searches the room). No, he is not 
there. She was right ! O father, you can never 
know, praise God ! 

SCENE II 
Mary to whom Jean and afterwards Leslie 

Sc. 2 Jean [at door). Mistress . . . . ! 

Mary. Ah ! Who is there ? Who are you ? 

Jean. Is he no hame yet ? I'm aye waitin' on him. 

Mary. Waiting for him ? Do you know the 
Deacon ? You ? 

Jean. I maun see him. Eh, lassie, it's life and 
death. 

Mary. Death . . . O my heart ! 

Jean. I maun see him, bonnie leddie. I'm a puir 
body, and no fit to be seen speakin' wi' the likes o' 
you. But O lass, ye are the Deacon's sister, and ye 



Sc. 2 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

hae the Deacon's e'en, and for the love of the dear V 
kind Lord, let's in and hae a word wi' him ere it be vill 
ower late. I'm bringin' siller. 

Mary. Siller ? You ? For him ? O father, father, 
if you could hear ! What are you ? What are you 
... to him ? 

Jean. I'll be the best frien' 'at ever he had ; for, 

dear leddie, I wad gie my bluid to help him. 
Mary. And the ... . the child ? 
Jean. The bairn ? 
Mary. Nothing! O nothing! I am in trouble, 

and I know not what I say. And I cannot help 
you ; I cannot help you if I would. He is not here ; 
and I believed he was ; and ill . . • ill ; and he is 
not — he is .... O, I think I shall lose my mind ! 

Jean. Ay, it's unco business. 

Mary. His father is dead within there . . . dead, 

1 tell you . . . dead ! 
Jean. It's mebbe just as weel. 
Mary. Well ? Well ? Has it come to this ? O 

Walter, Walter ! come back to me, or I shall die. 
(Leslie enters, C.) 

Leslie. Mary, Mary ! I hoped to have spared 
you this. {To Jean.) What — you ? Is he not here ? 

Jean. I'm aye waitin' on him. 

Leslie. What has become of him ? Is he mad ? 
Where is he ? 

Jean. The Lord A'michty kens, Mr. Leslie. But 
I maun find him ; I maun find him. 

99 



DEACON BRODIE OR 
V 

VIII SCENE III 

Sc. 3 Mary, Leslie 

Mary. O Walter, Walter ! What does it mean ? 

Leslie. You have been a brave girl all your life, 
Mary ; you must lean on me . . . you must trust in 
me . . . and be a brave girl till the end. 

Mary. Who is she ? What does she want with 
him ? And he . . . where is he ? Do you know 
that my father is dead, and the Deacon not here ? 
Where has he gone ? He maybe dead, too. Father, 
brother . . . O God, it is more than I can bear! 

Leslie. Mary, my dear, dear girl . . . when will 
you be my wife ? 

Mary. 0,do not speak . . . not speak ... of it 
to-night. Not to-night ! O not to-night ! 

Leslie. 1 know, I know, dear heart! And do you 
think that I whom you have chosen, I whose whole 
life is in your love — do you think that I would press 
you now if there were not good cause ? 

Mary. Good cause ! Something has happened. 
Something has happened .... to him ! Walter . . . ! 
Is he . . . . dead ? 

Leslie. There are worse things in the world than 
death. There is .... O Mary, he is your brother ! 

Mary. What ? . . . . Dishonour ! . . . . The Deacon i 
.... My God ! 

Leslie. My wife, my wife ! 

loo 



Sc. 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Mary. No, no ! Keep away from me. Don't V 

touch me. I'm not fit . . . not fit to be near you. \iii 
What has he done? I am his sister. Tell me the 
worst. Tell me the worst at once. 

Leslie. That, if God wills, dear, that you shall 
never know. Whatever it be, think that I knew it 
all, and only loved you better ; think that your true 
husband is with you, and you are not to bear it alone. 

Mary, My husband ? . . . Never. 

Leslie. Mary . . . ! 

Mary. You forget, you forget what I am. I am 
his sister. I owe him a lifetime of happiness and 
love ; I owe him even you. And whatever his fault, 
however ruinous his disgrace, he is my brother — my 
own brother — and my place is still with him. 

Leslie. Your place is with me — is with your 
husband. With me, with me ; and for his sake most 
of all. What can you do for hirn alone ? how can 
you help him alone ? It wrings my heart to think 
how little. But together is different. Together. . . . ! 
Join my strength, my will, my courage to your own, 
and together we may save him. 

Mary. All that is over. Once I was blessed 
among women. I was my father's daughter, my 
brother loved me, I lived to be your wife. Now . . . . ! 
My father is dead, my brother is shamed ; and you 
. . . . O how could I face the world, how could I 
endure myself, if I preferred my happiness to your 
honour ? 

loi 



Sc 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

V Leslie. What is my honour but your happiness ? 

YjTT In what else does it consist ? Is it in denying me 
my heart ? is it in visiting another's sin upon the 
innocent ? Could I do that, and be my mother's 
son ? Could I do that, and bear my father's name ? 
Could I do that, and have ever been found worthy 
of you ? 

Mary. It is my duty . . . my duty. Why will you 
make it so hard for me ? So hard, Walter, so hard ! 

Leslie. Do I pursue you only for your good 
fortune, your beauty, the credit of your friends, your 
family's good name ? That were not love, and I love 
you. I love you, dearest, I love you. Friend, father, 
brother, husband ... I must be all these to you. I 
am a man who can love well. 

Mary. Silence ... in pity ! I cannot . . . O, I 
cannot bear it. 

Leslie. And say it was I who had fallen. Say I 
had played my neck and lost it . . . that I were 
pushed by the law to the last limits of ignominy and 
despair. Whose love would sanctify my jail to me ? 
whose pity would shine upon me in the dock ? 
whose prayers would accompany me to the gallows ? 
Whose but yours ? Yours ! . . . And you would 
entreat me — me ! — to do what you shrink from even 
in thought, what you would die ere you attempted 
in deed ! 

Mary. Walter ... on my knees ... no more, 
no more ! 

1 02 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Leslie. My wife ! my wife ! Here on my heart ! V 

It is I that must kneel ... I that must kneel to you. yjjj 

Mary. Dearest ! . . . Husband ! You forgive 
him ? O, you forgive him ? 

Leslie. He is my brother now. Let me take you 
to our father. Come. 



Sc. 3 



SCENE IV 

After a pause, Brodie, through the window 

Brodie. Saved ! And the aUbi ! ' Man, but Sc. 4 
you've been near it this time — near the rope, near 
the rope. Ah boy, it was your neck, your neck you 
fought for. They were closing hell-doors upon me, 
swift as the wind, when I slipped through and shot 
for heaven ! Saved ! The dog that sold me, I 
settled him ; and the other dogs are staunch. Man, 
but your alibi will stand ! Is the window fast ? The 
neighbours must not see the Deacon, the poor, sick 
Deacon, up and stirring at this time o' night. Ay, 
the good old room in the good, cozy old house . . . 
and the rat a dead rat, and all saved. {He lights the 
candles.) Your hand shakes, sir ? Fie ! And you 
saved, and you snug and sick in your bed, and it but 
a dead rat after all ? [He takes off his hanger and 
lays it on the table.') Ay, it was a near touch. Will 
it come to the dock ? If it does ! You've a tongue, 
and you've a head, and you've an alibi ; and your 
alibi will stand. {He takes off his coat, takes out the 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

V d(^gg^^, and ivith a gesture of striking) Home ! He 

Yjjj fell without a sob. ' He breaketh them against the 

C„ . bosses of his buckler ! ' [Lays the dagger on the 

'^ table.) Your alibi . . . ah Deacon, that's your life ! 

, . . your alibi, your alibi. [He takes up a candle 

and tur7is towards the door.) O ! . . . . Open, 

open, open ! Judgment of God, the door is open ! 

SCENE V 
Brodie, Mary 

Sc. 5 Brodie. Did you open the door ? 

Mary, I did. 

Brodie. You .... you opened the door ? 

Mary. I did open it. 

Brodie. Were you . . . alone ? 

Mary. I was not. The servant was with me ; and 
the doctor. 

Brodie. O . . . the servant . . . and the doctor. 
Very true. Then it's^U over the town by now. The 
servant and the doctor. The doctor ? What doctor ? 
Why the doctor ? 

Mary. My father is dead. O Will, where have 
you been ? 

Brodie. Your father is dead. O yes ! He's 
dead, is he? Dead. Quite right. Quite right. . . . 
How did you open the door? It's strange. I bolted it. 

Mary. We could not help it. Will, now could we? 
The doctor forced it. He had to, had he not ? 

104 



Sc. 5 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Brodie. The doctor forced it ? The doctor ? Was V 
he here? He forced it ? He ? Ym 

Mary. We did it for the best ; it was I who did it 
... I, your own sister. And O Will, my Willie, 
where have you been ? You have not been in any 
harm, any danger ? 

Brodie. Danger ? O my young lady, you have 
taken care of that. It's not danger now, it's death. 
Death? Ah! Death! Death! Death! {Clutching 
the table. Then, recovering as from a dream.) Death? 
Did you say my father was dead ? My, father ? O 
my God, my poor old father ! Is he dead, Mary ? 
Have I lost him ? is he gone ? O, Mary dear, and to 
think of where his son was ! 

Mary. Dearest, he is in heaven. 

Brodie. Did he suffer ? 

Mary. He died like a child. Your name ... it 
was his last. 

Brodie. My name ? Mine ? O Mary, if he had 
known ! He knows now. He knows ; he sees us 
now . . . sees me ! Ay, and sees you, left how 
lonely ! 

Mary. Not so, dear ; not while you live. Wherever 
you are, I shall not be alone, so you live. 

Brodie. While I live ? I ? The old house is 
ruined, and the old master dead, and I ! . . . O Mary, 
try and believe I did not mean that it should come to 
this ; try and believe that I was only weak at first. 
At first ? And now ! The good old man dead, the 

105 



Sc. 5 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

V kind sister ruined, the innocent boy fallen, fallen . . . ! 
VIII ^°'^ ^^'^^ ^^ quite alone ; all your old friends, all the 
old faces, gone into darkness. The night (with a 
gesture) .... it waits for me. You will be quite 
alone. 

Mary. The night ! 

Brodie. Mary, you must hear. How am I to tell 
her, and the old man just dead ! Mary, I was the 
boy you knevv ; I loved pleasure, I was weak ; I 
have fallen . . . low . . . lower than you think. A 
beginning is so small a thing ! I never dreamed it 
would come to this .... this hideous last night. 

Mary. Willie, you must tell me, dear. I must have 
the truth . . . the kind truth ... at once ... in pity. 

Brodie. Crime. I have fallen. Crime. 

Mary. Crime ? 

Brodie. Don't shrink from me. Miserable dog 
that I am, selfish hound that has dragged you to this 
misery . . . you and all that loved him . . . think 
only of my torments, think only of my penitence, 
don't shrink from me. 

Mary. I do not care to hear, 1 do not wish, I do 
not mind ; you are my brother. What do I care ? 
How can I help you ? 

Brodie. Help ? help me ? You would not speak 
of it, not wish it, if you knew. My kind good sister, 
my little playmate, my sweet friend ! Was I ever 
unkind to you till yesterday ? Not openly unkind ? 
you'll say that when I am gone. 

1 06 



Sc. 5 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Mary. If you have done wrong, what do I care ? V 

If you have failed, does it change my twenty years of vill 
love and worship ? Never ! 

Brodie. Yet I must make her understand . . . . ! 

Mary. I am your true sister, dear. I cannot fail, 
I will never leave you, I will never blame you. Come ! 
{Goes to embrace.) 

Brodie {recoiling). No, don't touch me, not a 
finger, not that, anything but that ! 

Mary. Willie, WiUie ! 

Brodie {taking the bloody dagger from the table). 
See, do you understand that ? 

Mary. Ah ! What, what is it ! 

Brodie. Blood. I have killed a man. 

Mary. You ? . . . . 

Brodie. I am a murderer ; I was a thief before. 
Your brother . . . the old man's only son ! 

Mary. Walter, Walter, come to me ! 

Brodie. Now you see that I must die ; now you 
see that I stand upon the grave's edge, all my lost life 
behind me, like a horror to think upon, like a frenzy, 
like a dream that is past. And you, you are alone. 
Father, brother, they are gone from you ; one to 
heaven, one . . . . ! 

Mary. Hush, dear, hush ! Kneel, pray ; it is not 
too late to repent. Think of our father, dear ; repent. 
{She weeps, straining to his bosom.) O Willie, my 
darling boy, repent and join us. 

107 



V 

VIII 

Sc.6 



DEACON BRODIE OR 

SCENE VI 
To these, Lawson, Leslie, Jean 

Lawson. She kens a', thank the guid Lord ! 

BrODIE {to Mary). I know you forgive me now ; 
I ask no more. That is a good man. {To Leslie.) 
Will you take her from my hands ? (Leslie takes 
Mary. j Jean, are ye here to see the end ? 

Jean. Eh man, can ye no fly ? Could ye no say 
that it was me ? 

Brodie. No, Jean, this is where it ends. Uncle, 
this is where it ends. And to think that not an hour 
ago I still had hopes ! Hopes ! Ay, not an hour ago 
I thought of a new life. You were not forgotten, 
Jean. Leslie, you must try to forgive me . . . you, 
too ! 

Leslie. You are her brother. 

Brodie [to Lawson). And you ? 

Lawson. My name-child and my sister's bairn ! 

Brodie. You won't forget Jean, will you ? nor the 
child ? 

Lawson. That I will not. 

Mary. O Willie, nor I. 

SCENE VII 

To these. Hunt 

3q^ ^ Hunt. The game's up, Deacon. I'll trouble you 
to come along with me. 
1 08 



Curtain. 



Sc. 7 



THE DOUBLE LIFE 

Brodie (behr, d the table). One moment, officer : V 

I have a word to say before witnesses ere I go. In vill 
all this there is but one man guilty ; and that man is 
I. None else has sinned ; none else must suffer. 
This poor woman {poittting to Jean) I have used ; 
she never understood. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, that is 
my dying confession. {He snatches his hanger fro7n 
the table, and rushes upon Hunt, who parries, and 
runs him through. He reels across the stage and 
falls.) The new life . . . the new life ! {He dies.) 



109 



BEAU AUSTIN 



DEDICATED 

WITH ADMIRATION AND RESPECT 

TO / 

GEORGE MEREDITH 



Bournemouth: 

tsi October 1884 



PERSONS REPRESENTED 

George Frederick Austin, called ' Beau Austin,' . . yEtat. 50 

John Fen wick, of Allonby Shaw „ :6 

Anthony Musgrave, Cornet in the Prince's Own, . . ,, 21 

Menteith, the Beau's Valet, jj 55 

A Royal Duke. (Dumb show.) 

Dorothy Musgrave, Anthony's Sister, ....,, 25 

Miss Evelina Foster, her Aunt, !i 45 

Barbara Ridley, her Maid, ,,20 

Visitors to the Wells. 

The Time is 1820. The Scene is laid at Tunbridge Wells. 
The Action occupies a space of ten hours. 



HAYMARKET THEATRE 

Monday, Novemhei- yi, 1890 
CAST 
George Frederick Austin, . . . Mr. Tree. 

John Fenwick, Mr. Fred. Terry. 

Anthony Musgrave, Mr. Edmund Maurice. 

Menteith, Mr. Brookfield. 

A Royal Duke, Mr. Robb Harwood. 

Dorothy Musgrave, Mrs. Tree. 

Miss Evelina Foster Miss Rose Leclercq. 

Barbara Ridley, Miss Avlward. 

Visitors to the Wells. 



PROLOGUE 

spoken by Mr. Tree in the character of 
Bean Austin 

' To all and singular,' as Dryden says, ' 

We bring a fancy of those Georgian days, 

Whose style still breathed a faint and fine perfume 

Of old-world courtliness and old-world bloom : 

When speech was elegant and talk was fit, 

For slang had not been canonised as wit ; 

When manners reigned, when breeding had the wall, 

And Women — yes ! — were ladies first of all ; 

When Grace was conscious of its gracefulness, 

And man — though Man ! — was not ashamed to dress. 

A brave formality, a measured ease. 

Were his — and her's — whose effort was to please. 

And to excel in pleasing was to reign 

And, if you sighed, never to sigh in vain. 

But then, as now — it may be, something more — 
■Woman and man were human to the core. 
,The hearts that throbbed behind that quaint attire 
Burned with a plenitude of essential fire. 

115 



PROLOGUE 

They too could risk, they also could rebel, 

They could love wisely — they could love too well. 

In that great duel of Sex, that ancient strife 

Which is the very central fact of life, 

They could— and did — engage it breath for breath, 

They could — and did — get wounded unto death. 

As at all times since time for us began 

Woman was truly woman, man was man. 

And joy and sorrow were as much at home 

In trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome. 

Dead — dead and done with ! Swift from shine to 

shade 
The roaring generations flit and fade. 
To this one, fading, flitting, like the rest, 
We come to proffer — be it worst or best — 
A sketch, a shadow, of one brave old time ; 
A hint of what it might have held sublime ; 
A dream, an idyll, call it what you will, 
Of man still Man, and woman — Woman still ! 



ii6 



BEAU AUSTIN 

Musical Induction : ' Lascia ch'io pianga ' {Rhialdo). 

, Handel. 

ACT I 

The stage represents Miss Foster's apartments at the Wells. Doors, 

L. and C. ; a tvindoiv, L. C, looking- on the street ; a table, 

R,. laid /or breakfast. 

SCENE I 

Barbara ; to her Miss Foster t 

Barbara {out of window). Mr. Menteith ! Mr. c^ j 
Menteith ! Mr. Menteith '.—Drat his old head ! Will 
nothing make him hear ? — Mr. Menteith ! 

Miss Foster {entering). Barbara ! this is in- 
credible : after all my lessons, to be leaning from the 
window, and calling (for unless my ears deceived me, 
you were positively calling !) into the street. 

Barbara. Well, madam, just wait until you hear 
who it was. I declare it was much more for Miss 

117 



BEAU AUSTIN 

I Dorothy and yourself than for me ; and if it was a 

Cp T Httle countrified, I had a good excuse. 

Miss Foster. Nonsense, child ! At least, who 
was it ? 

Barbara. Miss Eyelina, I was sure you would ask. 
Well, what do you think ? I was looking out of 
window at the barber's opposite 

Miss Foster. Of which I entirely disapprove 

Barbara. And first there came out two of the 
most beautiful the Royal livery, madam ! 

Miss Foster. Of course, of course : the Duke of 
York arrived last night. I trust you did not hail the 
Duke's footmen ? 

Barbara. O no, madam, it was after they were 
gone. Then, who should come out— but you'll never 
guess ! 

Miss Foster. I shall certainly not try. 

Barbara. Mr. Menteith himself ! 

Miss Foster. Why, child, I never heard of him. 

Barbara. O madam, not the Beau's own gentle- 
man ? 

Miss Foster. Mr. Austin's servant. No ? Is it 
possible ? By that, George Austin must be here. 

Barbara. No doubt of that, madam ; they're 
never far apart. He came out feeling his chin, 
madam, so ; and a packet of letters under his arm, 
so ; and he had the Beau's own walk to that degree 
you couldn't tell his back from his master's. 

Miss Foster. My dear Barbara, you too frequently 
ii8 



BEAU AUSTIN 

forget yourself. A young woman in your position I 

must beware of levity. Cp , 

Barbara. Madam, I know it ; but la, what are 
you to make of me ? Look at the time and trouble 
dear Miss Dorothy was always taking — she that 
trained up everybody — and see what's come of it : 
Barbara Ridley I was, and Barbara Ridley I am ; and 
I don't do with fashionable ways — I can't do with 
them ; and indeed. Miss Evelina, I do sometimes 
v/ish we were all back again on Edenside, and Mr. 
Anthony a boy again, and dear Miss Dorothy her old 
self, galloping the bay mare along the moor, and 
taking care of all of us as if she was our mother, 
bless her heart ! 

Miss Foster. Miss Dorothy herself, child ? Well, 
now you mention it, Tunbridge of late has scarcely 
seemed to suit her constitution. She falls away, has 
not a word to throw at a dog, and is ridiculously pale. 
Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, after six months 
of infidelity to the dear Wells, we shall all, I hope, be 
brightened up. Has the mail come ? 

Barbara. That it has, madam, and the sight of 
Mr. Menteith put it clean out of my head. ( IVifk 
letters.) Four for you, Miss Evelina, two for me, and 
only one for Miss Dorothy. Miss Dorothy seems 
quite neglected, does she not ? Six months ago, it was 
a different story. 

Miss Foster. Well, and that's true, Barbara, and 
I had not remarked it. I must take her seriously to 

119 



BEAU AUSTIN 

I task. No young lady in her position should neglect 

Cq t her correspondence. {^Opening a letter.) Here's 
from that dear ridiculous boy, the Cornet, announcing 
his arrival for to-day. 

Barbara. O madam, will he come in his red coat ? 

Miss Foster. I could not conceive him missing 
such a chance. Youth, child, is always vain, and Mr. 
Anthony is unusually young. 

Barbara. La, madam, he can't help that. 

Miss Foster. My child, I am not so sure. Mr. 
Anthony is a great concern to me. He was orphaned, 
to be sure, at ten years old ; and ever since he has 
been only as it were his sister's son. Dorothy did 
everything for him : more indeed than I thought quite 
ladylike, but I suppose I begin to be old-fashioned. 
See how she worked and slaved — yes, slaved ! — for 
him : teaching him herself, with what pains and 
patience she only could reveal, and learning that she 
might be able ; and see what he is now : a gentleman, 
of course, but, to be frank, a very commonplace one : 
not what I had hoped of Dorothy's brother ; not what 
I had dreamed of the heir of two families — Musgrave 
and Foster, child! Well, he may now meet Mr. 
Austin. He requires a Mr. Austin to embellish and 
correct his manners. {Opening another letter.) Why, 
Barbara, Mr. John Scrope and Miss Kate Dacre are 
to be married ! 

Barbara. La, madam, how nice ! 

Miss Foster. They are : As I'm a sinful woman. 
1 20 



BEAU AUSTIN 

And when will you be married, Barbara? and when I 

dear Dorothy ? I hate to see old maids a-making. g^^ 

Barbara. La, Miss Evelina, there's no harm in 
an old maid. 

Miss Foster. You speak like a fool, child : sour 
grapes are all very well but it's a woman's business 
to be married. As for Dorothy, she is five-and-twenty, 
and she breaks my heart. Such a match, too ! Ten 
thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the north, 
a most advantageous person, all the graces, the finest 
sensibility, excellent judgment, the Foster walk ; and 
all these to go positively a-begging ! The men seem 
stricken with blindness. Why, child, when I came out 
(and I was the dear girl's image !) I had more swains 

at my feet in a fortnight than our Dorothy in O, I 

cannot fathom it : it must be the girl's own fault. 

Barbara. Why, madam, I did think it was a case 
with Mr. Austin. 

Miss Foster. With Mr. Austin ? why, how very 
rustic ! The attentions of a gentleman like Mr. 
Austin, child, are not supposed to lead to matrimony. 
He is a feature of society : an ornament : a person- 
age : a private gentleman by birth, but a kind of king 
by habit and reputation. What woman could he 
marry ? Those to whom he might properly aspire are 
all too far below him. I have known George Austin 
too long, child, and I understand that the very great- 
ness of his success condemns him to remain un- 
married. 

121 



BEAU AUSTIN 

I Barbara. Sure, madam, that must be tiresome for 



Sc. I 



him. 

Miss Foster. Some day, child, you will know 
better than to think so. George Austin, as I conceive 
him, and as he is regarded by the world, is one of the 
triumphs of the other sex. I walked my first minuet 
with him: I wouldn't tell you the year, child, for 
worlds ; but it was soon after his famous rencounter 
with Colonel Villiers. He had killed his man, he 
wore pink and silver, was most elegantly pale, and 
the most ravishing creature ! 

Barbara. Well, madam, I believe that : he is the 
most beautiful gentleman still. 



SCENE II 

To these, DOROTHY, L 

Sc. 2 Dorothy {entering). Good-morning, aunt ! Is 

there anything for me ? {She goes eagerly to table, 
and looks at letters.') 

Miss Foster. Good-morrow, niece. Breakfast, 
Barbara. 

Dorothy {ivith letter unopened). Nothing. 

Miss Foster. And what do you call that, my 
dear? (Sitting.) Is John Fenwick nobody ? 

Dorothy {looking at letter). From John ? O yes, 
so it is. {Lays down letter unopened, and sits to 
breakfast, Barbara waiting.) 

122 



BEAU AUSTIN 

Miss Foster {to Barbara, with plate). Thanks, I 

child ; now you may give me some tea. Dolly, I c „ ^ 
must insist on your eating a good breakfast : I cannot 
away with your pale cheeks and that Patience-on-a- 
Monument kind of look. (Toast, Barbara.) At 
Edenside you ate and drank and looked like Hebe. 
What have you done with your appetite ? 

Dorothy. I don't know, aunt, I'm sure. 

Miss Foster. Then consider, please, and recover 
it as soon as you can : to a young lady in your posi- 
tion a good appetite is an attraction — almost a virtue. 
Do you know that your brother arrives this morning ? 

Dorothy. Dear Anthony ! Where is his letter, 
Aunt Evelina? I am pleased that he should leave 
London and its perils, if only for a day. 

Miss Foster. My dear, there are moments when 
you positively amaze me. (Barbara, soxne pate, if you 
please !) I beg you not to be a prude. All women, 
of course, are virtuous; but a prude is something I 
regard with abhorrence. The Cornet is seeing life, 
which is exactly what he wanted. You brought him 
up surprisingly well ; I have always admired you for 
it ; but let us admit — as women of the world, my dear 
— it was no upbringing for a man. You and that fine 
solemn fellow, John Fenwick, led a life that was 
positively no better than the Middle Ages ; and 
between the two of you, poor Anthony (who, I am 
sure, was a most passive creature !) was so packed 
with principle and admonition that I vow and declare 

123 



BEAU AUSTIN 

I he reminded me of Issachar stooping between his two 

gQ 2 burdens. It was high time for him to be done with 
your apron-string, my dear : he has all his wild oats 
to sow ; and that is an occupation which it is unwise 
to defer too long. By the bye, have you heard the 
news ? The Duke of York has done us a service for 
which I was unprepared. (More tea, Barbara !) 
George Austin, bringing the prince in his train, is 
with us once more. 

Dorothy. I knew he was coming. 

Miss Foster. You knew, child ? and did not tell ? 
You are a public criminal. 

Dorothy. I did not think it mattered,Aunt Evelina. 

Miss Foster. O do not make-believe. I am in 
love with him myself, and have been any time since 
Nelson and the Nile. As for you, Dolly, since he 
went away six months ago, you have been positively 
in the megrims. I shall date your loss of appetite 
from George Austin's vanishing. No, my dear, our 
family require entertainment : we must have wit 
about us, and beauty, and the bcl air. 

Barbara. Well, Miss Dorothy, perhaps it's out of 
my place : but I do hope Mr. Austin will come : I 
should love to have him see my necklace on. 

Dorothy. Necklace ? what necklace ? Did he 
give you a necklace ? 

Barbara. Yes, indeed. Miss, that he did : the 
very same day he drove you in his curricle to 
Penshurst. You remember, Miss, I couldn't go. 
124 



BEAU AUSTIN 

Dorothy. I remember. I 

Miss Foster. And so do I. I had a touch of . . . g^ 2 
Foster in the blood : the family gout, dears ! . . . 
And you, you ungrateful nymph, had him a whole 
day to yourself, and not a word to tell me when you 
returned. 

Dorothy. I remember. [Rising.) Is that the 
necklace, Barbara? It does not suit you. Give it me. 

Barbara. La, Miss Dorothy, I wouldn't for the 
world. 

Dorothy. Come, give it me. I want it. Thank 
you : you shall have my birthday pearls instead. 

Miss Foster. Why, Dolly, I believe you're jealous 
of the maid. Foster, Foster : always a Fester trick 
to wear the willow in anger. 

Dorothy. I do not think, madam, that I am of a 
jealous habit. 

Miss Foster. O, the personage is your excuse ! 
And I can tell you, child, that when George Austin 
was playing Florizel to the Duchess's Perdita, all 
the maids in England fell a prey to green-eyed 
melancholy. It was the ion, you see : not to pine 
for that Sylvander was to resign from good society. 

Dorothy. Aunt Evelina, stop ; I cannot endure 
to hear you. What is he after all but just Beau 
Austin ? What has he done — with half a century 
of good health, what has he done that is either 
memorable or worthy ? Diced and danced and set 
fashions ; vanquished in a drawing-room, fought for 

125 



BEAU AUSTIN 

I a word ; what else ? As if these were the meaning 

Cp 2 of hfe ! Do not make me think so poorly of all of 
us women. Sure, we can rise to admire a better kind 
of man than Mr. Austin. We are not all to be snared 
with the eye, dear aunt ; and those that are — O ! I 
know not whether I.more hate or pity them. 

Miss Foster. You will give me leave, my niece : 
such talk is neither becoming in a young lady nor 
creditable to your understanding. The world was 
made a great while before Miss Dorothy Musgrave ; 
and you will do much better to ripen your opinions, 
and in the meantime read your letter, which I 
perceive you have not opened. (Dorothy opens 
and reads ktier.) Bai'bara, child, you should not 
listen at table. 

Barbara. Sure, madam, I hope I know my place. 

Miss Foster. Then do not do it again. 

Dorothy. Poor John Fenwick ! he coming here ! 

Miss Foster. Well, and why not ? Dorothy, my 
darling child, you give me pain. You never had but 
one chance, let me tell you pointedly : and that was 
John Fenwick. If I were you, I would not let my 
vanity so blind me. This is not the way to marry. 

Dorothy. Dear aunt, I shall never marry. 

Miss Foster. A fiddlestick's end ! every one 
must marry. (Rising.) Are you for the Pantiles ? 

Dorothy. Not to-day, dear. 

Miss Foster. Well, well! have your wish, 
Dolorosa. Barbara, attend and dress me. 
126 



BEAU AUSTIN 

SCENE III 

Dorothy 

Dorothy. How she tortures me, poor aunt, my 
poor blind aunt ; and I — I could break her heart 
with a word. That she should see nothing, know 
nothing — there's where it kills. O, it is more than 
I can bear . . . and yet, how much less than I 
deserve ! Mad girl, of what do I complain ? that 
this dear innocent woman still believes me good, still 
pierces me to the soul with trustfulness. Alas, and 
were it otherwise, were her dear eyes opened to the 
truth, what were left me but death ? — He, too — she 
must still be praising him, and every word is a lash 
upon my conscience. If 1 could die of my secret: if 
I could cease — but one moment cease — this living 
lie ; if I could sleep and forget and be at rest ! 
— Poor John ! {Reading the letter) he at least is 
guiltless ; and yet for my fault he too must suffer, 
he too must bear part in my shame. Poor John 
Fenwick ! Has he come back with the old story : 
with what might have been, perhaps, had we stayed 
by Edenside ? Eden ? yes, my Eden, from which 
1 fell. O my old north country, my old river 
— the river of my innocence, the old country of my 
hopes — how could I endure to look on you now ? 
And how to meet John ? — John, with the old love on 
his lips, the old, honest, innocent, faithful heart! 
There was a Dorothy once who was not unfit to ride 

127 



I 

Sc. 3 



Sc. 3 



BEAU AUSTIN 

I with him, her heart as light as his, her hfe as clear 

as the bright rivers we forded ; he called her his 
Diana, he crowned her so with rowan. Where is 
that Dorothy now ? that Diana ? she that was every- 
thing to John ? For O, 1 did hun good : I know I 
did him good ; I will still believe 1 did him good ; I 
made him honest and kind and a true man ;• alas, 
and could not guide myself ! And now, how will he 
despise me ! For he shall know ; if I die, he shall 
know all ; I could not live, and not be true with him. 
{She takes out the necklace and looks at it.) That 
he should have bought me from my maid ! George, 
George, that you should have stooped to this ! 
Basely as you have used me, this is the basest. 
Perish the witness ! (She treads the trinket under 
foot.) Break, break like my heart, break like my 
hopes, perish like my good name ! 

SCENE IV 
To her, Fenwick, C. 

Fenwick {after a pause). Is this how you receive 
me, Dorothy ? Am I not welcome ? — Shall I go 
then ? 

Dorothy {running to him, with hands out- 
stretched). O no, John, not for me. {Ttirning , and 
pointing to the necklace.) But you find me changed. 

Fenwick {%uith a movement towards the necklace). 
This .? 
128 



Sc. 4 



BEAU AUSTIN 

Dorothy. No, no, let it lie. That is a trinket— I 

broken. But the old Dorothy is dead. Cp . 

Fenwick. Dead, dear ? Not to me. 

Dorothy. Dead to you — dead to all men. 

Fenwick. Dorothy, I loved you as a boy. There 
is not a meadow on Edenside but is dear to me for 
your sake, not a cottage but recalls your goodness, 
not a rock nor a tree but brings back something of 
the best and brightest youth man ever had. You 
were my teacher and my queen ; I walked with you, 
I talked with you, I rode with you ; I Ijved in your 
shadow ; I saw with your eyes. You will never 
know, dear Dorothy, what you were to the dull boy 
you bore with ; you will never know with what 
romance you filled my life, with what devotion, with 
v.'hat tenderness and honour. At night I lay awake 
and worshipped you ; in my dreams I saw you, and 
you loved me ; and you remember, when we told 
each other stories — you have not forgotten, dearest — 
that Princess Hawthorn that was still the heroine of 
mine : who was she ? I was not bold enough to tell, 
but she was you ! You, my virgin huntress, my 
Diana, my queen. 

Dorothy. O silence, silence — pity ! 

Fenwick. No, dear ; neither for your sake nor 
mine will I be silenced. I have begun ; I must go 
on and finish, and put fortune to the touch. It was 
from you I learned honour, duty, piety, and love. I 
am as you made me, and I exist but to reverence 

I2Q 



BEAU AUSTIN 

I and serve you. Why else have I come here, the 

Sc A ^^^^S^^'^ of England, my heart burning higher every 
mile, my very horse a clog to me ? why, but to ask 
you for my wife ? Dorothy, you wiH not deny me. 

Dorothy. You have not asked me about this 
broken trinket ? 

Fenwick. Why should I ask ? 1 love you. 

Dorothy. Yet I must tell you. Sit down. {S/ze 
picks up the necklace, and stands looking at it. 
Then, breaking down.) O John, John, it's long 
since I left home. 

Fenwick. Too long, dear love. The very trees 
will welcome you. 

Dorothy. Ay, John, but I no longer love you. 
The old Dorothy is dead, God pardon her ! 

Fenwick. Dorothy, who is the man ? 

Dorothy. O poor Dorothy ! O poor dead 
Dorothy ! John, you found me breaking this : me, 
your Diana of the Fells, the Diana of your old 
romance by Edenside. Diana — O what a name for 
me ! Do you see this trinket ? It is a chapter in my 
life. A chapter, do I say ? my whole life, for there 
is none to follow. John, you must bear with me, 
you must help me. I have that to tell — there is a 
secret — I have a secret, John — O, for God's sake, 
understand. That Diana you revered — O John, 
John, you must never speak of love to me again. 

Fenwick. What do you say ? How dare you ? 

Dorothy. John, it is the truth. Your Diana, 
130 



BEAU AUSTIN 

even she, she whom you so believed in, she who so J 

beheved in herself, came out into the world only to Sc d. 
be broken. I met, here at the Wells, a man — why 
should I tell you his name ? I met him, and I loved 
him. My heart was all his own ; yet he was not 
content with that : he must intrigue to catch me, he 
must bribe my maid with this. ( Throws the necklace 
on the table.) Did he love me ? Well, John, he said 
he did ; and be it so ! He loved, he betrayed, and 
he has left me. 

Fenwick. Betrayed ? 

Dorothy. Ay, even so ; I was betrayed. The 
fault was mine that I forgot our innocent youth, and 
your honest love. 

Fenwick. Dorothy, O Dorothy ! 

Dorothy. Yours is the pain ; but, O John, think 
it is for your good. Think in England how many 
true maids may be waiting for your love, how many 
that can bring you a whole heart, and be a noble 
mother to your children, while your poor Diana, at 
the first touch, has proved all frailty. Go, go and be 
happy, and let me be patient. I have sinned. 

Fenwick. By God, I'll have his blood. 

Dorothy. Stop ! I love him. {Between Fenwick 
and door, C.) 

Fenwick. What do I care ? I loved you too. 
Little he thought of that, little either of you thought 
of that. His blood — I'll have his blood ! 

Dorothy. You shall never know his name. 



BEAU AUSTIN 

I Fenwick. Know it ? Do you think I cannot 

Sc A g'^^ss ? Do you think I had not heard he followed 
you. Do you think I had not suffered — O suffered ! 
George Austin is the man. Dear shall he pay it ! 

Dorothy {a^ his feet). Pity me ; spare me, spare 
your Dorothy ! I love him — love him — love him ! 

Fenwick. Dorothy, you have robbed me of my 
happiness, and now you would rob me of my revenge. 

Dorothy. I know it ; and shall I ask, and you 
not grant ? 

Fenwick {raising her). No, Dorothy, you shall 
ask nothing, nothing in vain from me. You ask his 
life ; I give it you, as I would give you my soul ; as I 
would give you my life, if I had any left. My life is 
done ; you have taken it. Not a hope, not an end ; 
not even revenge. [He sits.) Dorothy, you see your 
work. 

Dorothy. O God, forgive me. 

Fenwick. Ay, Dorothy, He will, as I do. 

Dorothy. As you do ? Do you forgive me, John ? 

Fenwick. Ay, more than that, poor soul. I said 
my life was done, I was wrong ; I have still a duty. 
It is not in vain you taught me ; I shall still prove to 
you that it was not in vain. You shall soon find that 
I am no backward friend. Farewell. 



132 



Musical Induction: 'The Lass of Richmond Hill.' 

ACT II 

Tke Stage represents George Austin'' s dressing-room. Elaborate 

toilet-table, /?., nvith chair ; a cke7>al glass so arranged as to corre- 

spend ^lnth glass on table. Breakfast table, L., front. Door, L, 

The Beau is discovered at table, in dressing-gown, trifling 

■with correspondence. Menteith is frothing chocolate. 

SCENE I 
Austin, Menteith .. 

Menteith. At the barber's, Mr. George, I had the gc, j 
pleasure of meeting two of the Book's gentlemen. 

Austin. Well, and was his Royal Highness satis- 
fied with his quarters ? 

Menteith. Quite so, Mr. George. Delighted, I 
believe. 

Austin. I am rejoiced to hear it. I wish I could 
say I was as pleased with my journey, Menteith. 
This is the first time I ever came to the Wells in 
another person's carriage ; Duke or not, it shall be 
the last, Menteith. 

133 



BEAU AUSTIN 

n Menteith. Ah, Mr. George, no wonder. And 

Cp J how many times have we made that journey back 
and forth ? 

Austin. Enough to make us older than we look. 

Menteith. To be sure, Mr. George, you do wear 
well. 

Austin. We wear well, Menteith. 

Menteith. I hear, Mr. George, that Miss Mus- 
grave is of the company. 

Austin. Is she so ? Well, well ! well, well ! 

Menteith. I've not seen the young lady myself,Mr. 
George ; but the barber tells me she's looking poorly. 

Austin. Poorly ? 

Menteith. Yes, Mr. George, poorly was his word. 

Austin. Well, Menteith, I am truly sorry. She 
is not the first. 

Menteith. Yes, Mr. George. {A bell. M-E^- 
TEl'X'H goes out, and re-enters ivith card.) 

Austin {with card). Whom have we here ? An- 
thony Musgrave ? 

Menteith. A fine young man, Mr. George ; and 
with a look of the young lady, but not so gentlemanly. 

Austin. You have an eye, you have an eye. Let 
him in. 

SCENE II 
Austin, Menteith, Anthony 

Cp 2 Austin. I am charmed to have this opportunity, 

Mr. Musgrave. You belong to my old corps, I think ? 
134 



BEAU AUSTIN 

And how does my good friend, Sir Frederick ? I had I J 
his line ; but like all my old comrades, he thinks last Cp ^ 
about himself, and gives me not of his news. ■ 

Anthony. I protest, sir, this is a very proud 
moment. Your name is still remembered in the 
regiment. [PMSlUi bows.) The Colonel — he keeps 
his health, sir, considering his age (Austin bows 
again, and looks at Menteith) — tells us young men 
you were a devil of a fellow in your time. 

Austin. I believe I was — in my time. Menteith, 
give Mr. Musgrave a dish of chocolate. So, sir, we 
see you at the Wells. 

Anthony. I have but just alighted. I had but one 
thought, sir : to pay my respects to Mr. Austin. I 
have not yet kissed my aunt and sister. 

Austin. In my time — to which you refer — the 
ladies had come first. 

Anthony. The women ? I take you, sir. But 
then you see, a man's relatives don't count. And 
besides, Mr. Austin, between men of the world, I am 
fairly running away from the sex : I am positively in 
flight. Little Hortense of the Opera ; you know ; she 
sent her love to you. She's mad about me, I think. 
You never saw a creature so fond. 

Austin. Well, well, child ! you are better here. In 
my time — to which you have referred — I knew the 
lady. Does she wear well ? 

Anthony. I beg your pardon, sir! 

Austin. No offence, child, no offence. .She was a 

135 



BEAU AUSTIN 

1 1 very lively creature. But you neglect your chocolate, 

Sc. 2 ^ s^^ • 

Anthony. We don't patronise it, Mr. Austin ; we 

haven't for some years : the service has quite changed 

since your time. You'd be surprised. 

Austin. Doubtless. I am. 

Anthony. I assure you, sir, I and Jack Bosbury 
of the Fifty-Second 

Austin. The Hampshire Bosburys ? 

Anthony. I do not know exactly, sir. I believe 
he is related. 

Austin. Or perhaps— I remember a Mr. Bosbury, 
a cutter of coats. I have the vanity to believe I 
formed his business. 

Anthony. I — I hope not, sir. But as I was saying, 
I and this Jack Bosbury, and the Brummagem Bantam 
— a very pretty light-weight, sir — drank seven bottles 
of Burgundy to the three of us inside the eighty 
minutes. Jack, sir, was a little cut ; but me and the 
Bantam went out and finished the evening on hot gin. 
Life, sir, life ! Tom Cribb was with us. He spoke 
of you, too, Tom did : said you'd given him a wrinkle 
for his second fight with the black man. No, sir, 1 
assure you, you're not forgotten. 

Austin {boivs). I am pleased to learn it. In my 
time, I had an esteem for Mr. Cribb. 

Anthony. O come, sir ! but your time cannot be 
said to be over. 

Austin. Menteith, you hear? 
136 



BEAU AUSTIN 

Menteith. Yes, Mr. George. H 

Anthony. The Colonel told me that you liked to Q^q 2 
shake an elbow. Your big main, sir, with Lord 
Wensleydale, is often talked about. I hope I may 
have the occasion to sit down with you. I shall count 
it an honour, I assure you. 

Austin . But would your aunt, my very good friend, 
approve ? 

Anthony. Why, sir, you do not suppose I am in 
leading-strings ? 

Austin. You forget, child : a family must hang 
together. When I was young — in my time — I was 
alone ; and what I did concerned myself. But a 
youth who has — as I think you have — a family of 
ladies to protect, must watch his honour, child, and 
preserve his fortune. . . . You have no commands 
from Sir Frederick ? 

Anthony. None, sir, none. 

Austin. Shall I find you this noon upon the 
Pantiles? . . . I shall be charmed. Commend me to 
your aunt and your fair sister. Menteith ? 

Menteith. Yes, Mr. George. {S/iows Anthony 
out) 

SCENE III 

Austin, Menteith, retjirning 
Austin. Was I ever like that, Menteith? 
Menteith. No, Mr. George, you was always a 
gentleman. 

Austin. Youth, my good fellow, youth. 

137 



Sc.3 



BEAU AUSTIN 

II MeNTEITH. Quite so, Mr. George. 

Cp ., Austin. Well, Menteith, we cannot make nor 

mend. We cannot play the jockey with Time. Age 
is the test : of wine, Menteith, and men. 

Menteith. Me and you and the old Hermitage, 
Mr. George, he-he I 

Austin. And the best of these, the Hermitage. 
But come : we lose our day. Help me off with this. 
(Menteith takes off Austin's dressing-gown ; 
Austin passes R. to dressing-table, and takes up 
tirst cravat.) 

Austin. Will the hair do, Menteith ? 

Menteith. Never saw it lay better, Mr. George. 
{A\JST\'i< proceeds to wind Jirst cravat. Abed: exit 
Menteith. Austin drops first cravat in basket and 
takes second.) 

Austin {winding and singing) — 

' I'd crowns resign 

To call her mine, 

Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill ! ' 

{Second cravat a failure. Re-enter MENTEITH with 
card.) Fenwick ? of Allonby Shaw ? A good family, 
Menteith, but I don't know the gentleman. {Lays 
down card, and takes up third cravat.) Send him 
away with every consideration. 

Menteith. To be sure, Mr. George. {He goes 
out. Third cravat a success. Re-enter MEt^TEiTH .) 
He says, Mr. George, that he has an errand from 
Miss Musgrave. 
138 



BEAU AUSTIN 

Austin {with waistcoat). Show him in, Menteith, \\ 
at once. {Singing and fitting %vaistcoat at glass) — g^^ -, 

' I'd crowns resign 

To call her mine, 

Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill ! ' 

SCENE IV 
Austin, /^. To him Menteith and Fenwick 

Menteith {announcing). Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Sc 4. 
George. 

Austin. At the name of Miss Musgrave, my doors 
fly always open. 

Fenwick. I believe, sir, you are acquainted with 
my cousin, Richard Gaunt ? 

Austin. The county member ? An old and good 
friend. But you need not go so far afield : I know 
your good house of AUonby Shaw since the days of 
the Black Knight. We are, in fact, and at a very 
royal distance, cousins. 

Fenwick. I desired, sir, from the nature of my busi- 
ness, that you should recognise me for a gentleman. 

Austin. The preliminary, sir, is somewhat grave. 

Fenwick. My business is both grave and delicate. 

Austin. Menteith, my good fellow. {Exit Men- 
teith.) Mr. Fenwick, honour me so far as to be 
seated. {They sit.) I await your pleasure. 

Fenwick. Briefly, sir, I am come, not without 
hope, to appeal to your good heart. 

139 



BEAU AUSTIN 

II Austin, From Miss Musgrave ? 

Sc A Fenwick. No, sir, I abused her name, and am 

here upon my own authority. Upon me the con- 
sequence. 

Austin, Proceed. 

Fenwick. Mr. Austin, Dorothy Musgrave is the 
oldest and dearest of my friends, is the lady whom 
for ten years it has been my hope to make my wife. 
She has shown me reason to discard that hope for 
another : that I may call her Mrs. Austin. 

Austin. In the best interests of the lady {rising) 
I question if you have been well inspired. You are 
aware, sir, that from such interference there is but 
one issue : to whom shall I address my friend ? 

Fenwick. Mr. Austin, I am here to throw myself 
upon your mercy. Strange as my errand is, it will 
seem yet more strange to you that I came prepared 
to accept at your hands any extremity of dishonour 
and not fight. The lady whom it is my boast to serve 
has honoured me with her cominands. These are my 
law, and by these your life is sacred, 

Austin. Then, sir {wilh /lis hand upon the bell), 
this conversation becomes impossible. You have me 
at too gross a disadvantage ; and, as you are a gentle- 
man and respect another, I would suggest that you 
retire. 

Fenwick. Sir, you speak of disadvantage ; think 
of mine. All my life long, with all the forces of my 
nature, I have loved this lady. I came here to im- 
140 



BEAU AUSTIN 

plore her to be my wife, to be my queen ; my saint 1 1 
she had been always ! She was too noble to deceive g^ 4 
me. She told me what you know. I will not conceal 
that my first mood was of anger : I would have 
killed you like a dog. But, Mr. Austin — bear with me 
awhile — I, on the threshold of my life, who have 
made no figure in the world, nor ever shall now, who 
had but one treasure, and have lost it — if I, abandon- 
ing revenge, trampling upon jealousy, can supplicate 
you to complete my misfortune — O IMr. Austin ! you 
who have lived, you whose gallantry is beyond the 
insolence of a suspicion, you who are a man crowned 
and acclaimed, who are loved, and loved by such a 
woman — you who excel me in every point of advan- 
tage, will you suffer me to surpass you in generosity ? 

Austin. You speak from the heart. (Szfs.) What 
do you want with me ? 

Fenwick. Marry her. 

Austin. Mr. Fenwick, I am the older man. I 
have seen much of life, much of society, much of love. 
When I was young, it was expected of a gentleman 
to be ready with his hat to a lady, ready with his 
sword to a man ; to honour his word and his king ; 
to be courteous with his equals, generous to his 
dependants, helpful and trusty in friendship. But it 
was not asked of us to be quixotic. If I had married 
every lady by whom it is my fortune — not my merit — 
to have been distinguished, the Wells would scarce 
be spacious enough for my establishment. You see, 

141 



BEAU AUSTIN 

II sir, that while I respect your emotion, I am myself 
Sc A conducted by experience. And besides, Mr. Fenwick, 
is not love a warfare ? has it not rules ? have not our 
fair antagonists their tactics, their weapons, their 
place of arms ? and is there not a touch of — pardon 
me the word ! of silliness in one who, having fought, 
and having vanquished, sounds a parley, and capitu- 
lates to his own prisoner? Had the lady chosen, 
had the fortune of war been other, 'tis like she had 
been Mrs. Austin. Now ! . . . You know the world. 

Fenwick. I know, sir, that the world contains 
much cowardice. To find Mr. Austin afraid to do 
the right, this surprises me. 

Austin. Afraid, child ? 

Fenwick. Yes, sir, afraid. You know her, you 
know if she be worthy ; and you answer me with — 
the world : the world which has been at your feet : 
the world which Mr. Austin knows so well how to 
value and is so able to rule. 

Austin. I have lived long enough, Mr. Fenwick, 
to recognise that the world is a great power. It can 
make ; but it can break. 

Fenwick. Sir, suffer me : you spoke but now of 
friendship, and spoke warmly. Have you forgotten 
Colonel Villiers ? 

Austin. Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Fenwick, you forget 
what I have suffered. 

Fenwick. O sir, I know you loved him. And yet, 
for a random word you quarrelled ; friendship was 
142 



BEAU AUSTIN 

weighed in vain against the world's code of honour ; J J 

yoLi fought, and your friend fell. I have heard from c^ , 

others how he lay long in agony, and how you watched 

and nursed him, and it was in your embrace he died. 

In God's name have you forgotten that ? Was not 

this sacrifice enough ? or must the world, once again, 

step between Mr. Austin and his generous heart ? 

Austin. Good God, sir, I believe you are in the 
right ; I believe, upon my soul I believe, there is some- 
thing in what you say. 

Fenwick. Something, Mr. Austin ? O credit me, 
the whole difference betwixt good and evil. 

Austin. Nay, nay, but there you go too far. There 
are many kinds of good : honour is a diamond cut in 
a thousand facets, and with the true fire in each. 
Thus, and with all our differences, Mr. Fenwick, you 
and I can still respect, we can still admire each 
other. 

Fenwick. Bear with me still, sir, if I ask you what 
is the end of life but to excel in generosity ? To pity 
the weak, to comfort the afflicted, to right where we 
have wronged, to be brave in reparation — these noble 
elements you have ; for of what besides is the fabric 
of your dealing with Colonel Villiers ? That is man's 
chivalry to man. Yet to a suffering woman — a 
woman feeble, betrayed, unconsoled — you deny your 
clemency, you refuse your aid, you proffer injustice 
for atonement. Nay, you are so disloyal to yourself 
that you can choose to be ungenerous and unkind. 

H3 



Sc. 4 



BEAU AUSTIN 

II Where, sir, is the honour? What facet of the dia- 
mond is that ? 

Austin. You forget, sir, you forget. But go on. 

Fenwick. O sir, not I — not I but yourself forgets : 
George Austin forgets George Austin. A woman 
loved by him, betrayed by inm, abandoned by him — 
that woman suffers ; and a point of honour keeps 
him from his place at her feet. She has played and 
lost, and the world is with him if he deign to exact 
the stakes. Is that the Mr. Austin whom Miss 
Musgrave honoured with her trust ? Then, sir, how 
miserably was she deceived ! 

Austin. Child — child 

Fenwick. Mr. Austin, still bear with me, still 
follow me. O sir, will you not picture that dear lady's 
life ? Her years how few, her error thus irreparable, 
what henceforth can be her portion but remorse, the 
consciousness of self-abasement, the shame of know- 
ing that her trust was ill-bestowed ? To think of it : 
this was a queen among women ; and this — this is 
George Austin's work ! Sir, let me touch your heart : 
let me prevail with you to feel that 'tis impossible. 

Austin. I am a gentleman. What do you ask ot 
me ? 

Fenwick. To be the man she loved : tobeclement 
where the world would have you triumph, to be of 
equal generosity with the vanquished, to be worthy of 
her sacrifice and of youself. 

Austin. Mr. Fenwick, your reproof is harsh 

144 



BEAU AUSTIN 

Y ^KVflcy^ {ittierrupting him). O sir, be just, be II 
just! Sc. 4 

Austin. But it is merited, and I thank you for its 
utterance. You tell me that the true victory comes 
when the fight is won : that our foe is never so noble 
nor so dangerous as when she is fallen, that the 
crowning triumph is that we celebrate over our con- 
quering selves. Sir, you are right. Kindness, ay 
kindness after all. And with age, to become clement. 
Yes, ambition first ; then, the rounded vanity — victory 
still novel ; and last, as you say, the royal mood of 
the mature man : to abdicate for others. . . . Sir, 
you touched me hard about my dead friend ; still 
harder about my living duty ; and I am not so young 
but I can take a lesson. There is my hand upon it : 
she shall be my wife. 

Fenwick. Ah, Mr. Austin, I was sure of it. 

Austin. Then, sir, you were vastly mistaken. 
There is nothing of Beau Austin here. I have simply, 
my dear child, sate at the feet of Mr. Fenwick. 

Fenwick. Ah, sir, your heart was counsellor enough. 

Austin. Pardon me. I am vain enough to be the 
judge : there are but two people in the world who 
could have wrought this change : yourself and that 
dear lady. {Touches bell.) Suffer me to dismiss you. 
One instant of toilet, and I follow. Will you do me 
the honour to go before, and announce my approach ? 
{Enter Menteith.) 

Fenwick. Sir, if my admiration 

H5 



BEAU AUSTIN 

II Austin. Dear child, the admiration is the other 

way. {Embraces him. Menteith shows him out.) 



Sc. 4 



Sc. 5 



SCENE V 
Austin 

Austin. Upon my word, I think the world is 
getting better. We were none of us young men like 
that — in my time, to quote my future brother. {He 
sits down before the mirror.) Well, here ends Beau 
Austin. Paris, Rome, Vienna, London — victor every- 
where : and now he must leave his bones in Tun- 
bridge Wells. {Looks at his leg.) Poor Dolly 
Musgrave ! a good girl after all, and will make me a 
good wife ; none better. The last — of how many ? — 
ay, and the best ! Walks like Hebe. But still, here 
ends Beau Austin. Perhaps it's time. Poor Dolly — 
was she looking poorly ? She shall have her wish. 
Well, we grow older, but we grow no worse. 



SCENE VI 

Austin, Menteith 

3c. 6 Austin. Menteith, I am going to be married. 

Menteith. Well, Mr. George, but I am pleased 
to hear it. Miss Musgrave is a most elegant lady. 

Austin. Ay, Mr. Menteith ? and who told you the 
lady's name ? 
146 



BEAU AUSTIN 

Menteith. Mr. George, you was always a gentle- II 
i^an. Sc. 6 

Austin. You mean I wasn't always ? Old boy, 
you are in the right. This shall be a good change 
for both you and me. We have lived too long like a 
brace of truants : now is the time to draw about the 
fire. How ♦nuch is left of the old Hermitage ? 

Menteith. Hard upon thirty dozen, Mr. George, 
and not a bad cork in the bin. 

Austin. And a mistress, Menteith, that's worthy 
of that wine. 

Menteith, Mr. George, sir, she's worthy of you. 

Austin. Gad, I believe it. {Shakes hands with 
him.) 

Menteith {breaking down). Mr. George, you've 
been a damned good master to me, and I've been a 
damned good servant to you ; we've been proud of 
each other from the first ; but if you'll excuse my 
plainness, Mr. George, I never liked you better than 
to-day. 

Austin. Cheer up, old boy, the best is yet to come. 
Get out the tongs, and curl me like a bridegroom. 
{Sits before dressing-glass ; Menteith produces 
curling irons and plies them. Austin sings) — 

' I'd crowns resign 

To call her mine, 

Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill ! ' 

Drop 

147 



Musical Induction: the ' Minuet ' from '■Don Giovanni' 

ACT III 

The stage represents Miss Foster^ s lodging as in Act J. 

SCENE I 

Dorothy, R.,at tambour ; Anthony, C, bestriding 
jyx chair ; Miss Foster, L.C. 

Sc. I Anthony. Yes, ma'am, I like my regiment : We 
are all gentlemen, from old Fred downwards, and all 
of a good family. Indeed, so are all my friends, 
except one tailor sort of fellow, Bosbury. But I'm 
done with him. I assure you, Aunt Evelina, we are 
Corinthian to the last degree. I wouldn't shock you 
ladies for the world 

Miss Foster. Don't mind me, my dear ; go on. 

Anthony. Really, ma'am, you must pardon me : 
I trust I understand what topics are to be avoided 
among females — And before my sister, too ! A girl 
of her age ! 
148 



BEAU AUSTIN 

Dorothy. Why, you dear, silly fellow, I'm old HI 
enough to be your mother. Cp , 

Anthony. My dear Dolly, you do not understand; 
you are not a man of the world. But, as I was going 
on to say, there is no more spicy regiment in the 
service. 

Miss Foster. I am not surprised that it maintains 
its old reputation You know, my dear (/^Dorothy), 
it was George Austin's regiment. 

Dorothy. Was it, Aunt ? 

Anthony. Beau Austin ? Yes, it was ; and a 
precious dust they make about him still— a parcel of 
old frumps ! That's why I went to see him. But he's 
quite extinct : he couldn't be Corinthian if he tried. 

Miss Foster. I am afraid that even at your age 
George Austin held a very different position from the 
distinguished Anthony Musgrave. 

Anthony. Come, ma'am, I take that unkindly. 
Of course I know what you're at : of course the old 
put cut no end of a dash with the Duchess. 

Miss Foster. My dear child, I was thinking of 
no such thing ; ///«/ was immoral. 

Anthony. Then you mean that affair at Brighton : 
when he cut the Prince about Perdita Robinson. 

Miss Foster. No, I had forgotten it. 

Anthony. O, well, I know— that duel ! But look 
here, Aunt Evelina, I don't think you'd be much 
gratified after all if I were to be broke for killing my 
commanding officer .about a quarrel at cards. 

149 



BEAU AUSTIN 

III Dorothy. Nobody asks you, Anthony, to imitate 

Cp T Mr. Austin. I trust you will set yourself a better 
model. But you may choose a worse. With all his 
faults, and all his enemies, Mr. Austin is a pattern 
gentleman : You would not ask a man to be braver, 
and there are few so generous. I cannot bear to 
hear him called in fault by one so young. Better 
judges, dear, are better pleased. 

Anthony. Hey-dey ! what's this ? 

Miss Foster. Why, Dolly, this is April and May. 
You surprise me. 

Dorothy. I am afraid, indeed, madam, that you 
have much to suffer from my caprice. {She goes 
out, L.) 

SCENE II 

Anthony, Miss Foster 

Sc. 2 Anthony. What is the meaning of all this, 

ma'am ? I don't like it. 

Miss Foster. Nothing, child, that I know. You 
spoke of Mr. Austin, our dear friend, like a groom ; 
and she, like any lady of taste, took arms in his 
defence. 

Anthony. No, ma'am, that won't do. I know 
the sex. You mark my words, the girl has some 
confounded nonsense in her head, and wants looking 
after. 

Miss Foster. In my presence, Anthony, I shall 
ask you to speak of Dorothy with greater respect. 
150 



BEAU AUSTIN 

With your permission, your sister and I will continue HI 
to direct our own affairs. When we require the Cp ^ 
interference of so young and confident a champion, 
you shall know. [Curtsies, kisses her hand, and goes 
oui, L.) 

SCENE III 

Anthony 

Anthony. Upon my word, I think Aunt Evelina Sc. 3 
one of the most uncivil old women in the world. 
Nine weeks ago I came of age ; and they still treat 
me like a boy. I'm a recognised Corinthian, too : 
take my liquor with old Fred, and go round with the 

Brummagem Bantam and Jack Bosb . . . O 

damn Jack Bosbury. If his father was a tailor, 
he shall fight me for his ungentlemanly conduct. 
However, that's all one. What I want is to make 
Aunt Evelina understand that I'm not the man to be 
put down by an old maid who's been brought up in 
a work-basket, begad ! I've had nothing but rebuffs 
all day. It's very remarkable. There was that man 
Austin, to begin with. I'll be hanged if I can stand 
him. I hear too much of him ; and if I can only get 
a good excuse to put him to the door, I believe it 
would give Dorothy and all of us a kind of a position. 
After all, he's not a man to visit m the house of 
ladies : not when I'm away, at least. Nothing in it 
of course ; but is he a man whose visits I can 
sanction ? 

151 



Ill 

Sc. 4 



BEAU AUSTIN 



SCENE IV 
Anthony, Barbara 

Barbara. Please, Mr. Anthony, Miss Foster said 
I was to show your room. 

Anthony. Ha ! Baby ? Now, you come here. 
You're a girl of sense, I know. 

Barbara. La, Mr. Anthony, I hope I'm nothing 
of the kind. 

Anthony. Come, come ! that's not the tone I 
want : I'm serious. Does this man Austin come 
much about thf house ? 

Barbara. O Mr. Anthony, for shame ! Why 
don't you ask Miss Foster ? 

Anthony. Now I wish you to understand : I'm 
the head of this family. It's my business to look 
after my sister's reputation, and my aunt's too, 
begad ! That's what I'm here for : I'm their 
natural protector. And what I want you, Barbara 
Ridley, to understand — you whose fathers have served 
my fathers — is just simply this : if you've any 
common gratitude, you're bound to help me in the 
work. Now Barbara, you know me, and you know 
my Aunt Evelina. She's a good enough woman ; 
I'm the first to say so. But who is she to take care 
of a young girl ? She's ignorant of the world to that 
degree she believes in Beau Austin ! Now you and 
I, Bab, who are not so high and dry, see through 
152 



BEAU AUSTIN 

and through him ; we know that a man like that is HI 
no fit company for any inexperienced girl. g^ ,, 

Barbara. O Mr. Anthony, don't say that. 
( Weepittg. ) 

Anthony. Hullo ! what's wrong ? 

Barbara. Nothing that I know of. O Mr. 
Anthony, I don't think there can be anything. 

Anthony. Think ? Don't think ? What's this ? 

Barbara. O sir ! I don't know, and yet I don't 
like it. Here's my beautiful necklace all broke to 
bits : she took it off my very neck, and gave me her 
birthday pearls instead ; and I found it afterwards on 
the table, all smashed to pieces ; and all she wanted 
it for was to take and break it. Why that ? It 
frightens me, Mr. Anthony, it frightens me, 

Anthony {with necklace). This ? What has this 
trumpery to do with us ? 

Barbara. He gave it me : that's why she broke 
it. 

Anthony. He ? who ? 

Barbara. Mr. Austin did ; and I do believe I 
should not have taken it, Mr. Anthony, but I thought 
no harm, upon my word of honour. He was always 
here : that was six months ago ; and indeed, indeed, 
I thought they were to marry. How would I think 
else with a born lady like Miss Dorothy ? 

Anthony. Why, Barbara, God help us all, what's 
this ? You don't mean to say that there was 

Barbara. Here it is, as true as true : they were 

153 



BEAU AUSTIN 

III going for a jaunt ; and Miss Foster had her gout ; 

Cp . and I was to go with them ; and he told me to make- 

beheve I was ill ; and I did ; and I stayed at home ; 

and he gave tne that necklace ; and they went away 

together ; and, oh dear ! I wish I'd never been born. 

Anthony. Together ? he and Dolly ? Good Lord ! 
my sister ! And since then ? 

Barbara. We haven't seen him from that day to 
this, the wicked villain ; and, Mr. Anthony, he hasn't 
so much as written the poor dear a word. 

Anthony. Bab, Bab, Bab, this is a devil of a bad 
business ; this is a cruel bad business, Baby ; cruel 
upon me, cruel upon all of us ; a family like mine. 
I'm a young man, Barbara, to have this delicate 
affair to manage ; but, thank God, I'm Musgrave 
to the bone. He bribed a servant-maid, did he ? 
I keep his bribe ; it's mine now ; dear bought, by 
George ! He shall have it in his teeth. Shot 
Colonel Villiers, did he ? we'll see how he faces 
Anthony Musgrave. You're a good girl, Barbara; 
so far you've served the family. You leave this 
to me. And, hark ye, dry your eyes and hold your 
tongue : I'll have no scandal raised by you. 

Barbara. I do hope, sir, you won't use me 
against Miss Dorothy. 

Anthony. That's my affair ; your business is to 
hold your tongue. Miss Dorothy has made her bed 
and must lie on it. Here's Jack Fenwick. You can 
go- 

154 



Ill 



BEAU AUSTIN 

SCENE V 
Anthony, Fenwick 

Anthony, Jack Fenwick, is that you ? Come Cp _ 
here, my boy. Jack, you've given me many a ' ^ 

thrashing, and I deserved 'em ; and I'll not see you 
made a fool of now. George Austin is a dammed 
villain, and Dorothy Musgrave is no girl for you to 
marry : God help me that I should have to say it. 
, Fenwick. Good God, who told /<?«.? 

Anthony. Ay, Jack ; it's hard on me. Jack. But 
you'll stand my friend in spite of this, and you'll 
take my message to the man won't you ? For it's 
got to come to blood. Jack : there's no way out of 
that. And perhaps your poor friend will fall. Jack ; 
think of that : like Villiers. And all for an unworthy 
sister. 

Fenwick. Now, Anthony Musgrave, I give you 
fair warning ; see you take it : one word more against 
your sister, and we quarrel. 

Anthony. You let it slip yourself. Jack : you know 
yourself she's not a virtuous girl. 

Fenwick. What do you know of virtue, whose 
whole boast is to be vicious ? How dare you draw 
conclusions ? Dolt and puppy ! you can no more 
comprehend that angel's excellencies than she can 
stoop to believe in your vices. And you talk morality ? 
Anthony, I'm a man who has been somewhat roughly 
tried : take care. 

155 



BEAU AUSTIN 

III Anthony. You don't seem able to grasp the situa- 

gQ r tion, Jack. It's very remarkable ; I'm the girl's 

natural protector ; and you should buckle-to and 

help, like a friend of the family. And instead of 

that, begad ! you turn on me like all the rest. 

Fenwick. Now mark me fairly : Mr. Austin fol- 
lows at my heels ; he comes to offer marriage to your 
sister — that is all you know, and all you shall know ; 
and if by any misplaced insolence of yours this 
marriage should miscarry, you have to answer, not to 
Mr. Austin only, but to me. 

Anthony. It's all a most discreditable business, 
and I don't see how you propose to better it by 
cutting my throat. Of course if he's going to marry 
her, it's a different thing ; but I don't believe he is, 
or he'd have asked me. You think me a fool ? Well, 
see they marry, or they'll find me a dangerous fool. 

SCENE VI 

To these, Austin, Barbara announcing 

Cp /r Barbara. Mr. Austin. {She shows Austin in, 
and retires. ) 

Austin. You will do me the justice to acknowledge, 
Mr. Fenwick, that I have been not long delayed by 
my devotion to the Graces. 

Anthony. So, sir, I find you in my house 

Austin. And charmed to meet you again. It went 
against my conscience to separate so soon. Youth, 
156 



BEAU AUSTIN 

Mr. Musgrave, is to us older men a perpetual refresh- HI 
ment. Sc. 6 

Anthony. You came here, sir, I suppose, upon 
some errand ? 

Austin. My errand, Mr. Musgrave, is to your fair 
sister. Beauty, as you know, comes before valour. 

Anthony. In my own house, and about my own 
sister, I presume I have the right to ask for some- 
thing more explicit. 

Austin. The right, my dear sir, is beyond ques- 
tion ; but it is one, as you were going on to observe, 
on which no gentleman insists. 

Fenwick! Anthony, my good fellow, I think we 
had better go. 

Anthony. I have asked a question. 

Austin. Which I was charmed to answer, but 
which, on repetition, might begin to grow distasteful. 

Anthony. In my own house 

Fenwick. For God's sake, Anthony! 

Austin. In your aunt's house, young gentleman, I 
shall be careful to refrain from criticism. I am come 
upon a visit to a lady : that visit I shall pay ; when 
you desire (if it be possible that you desire it) to 
resume this singular conversation, select some fitter 
place. Mr. Fenwick, this afternoon, may I present 
you to his Royal Highness ? 

Anthony. Why, sir, I believe you must have mis- 
conceived me. I have no wish to offend : at least at 
present. 

157 



BEAU AUSTIN 

III Austin. Enough, sir. I was persuaded I had 

g^ g heard amiss. I trust we shall be friends. 

Fenwick. Come, Anthony, come : here is your 
sister. 

(As Fenwick and Anthony go out, C, enter 
Dorothy, Z.) 

SCENE VII 

Austin, Dorothy 

Sc. 7 Dorothy. I am told, Mr. Austin, that you wish 

to see me. 

Austin. Madam, can you doubt of that desire ? 
can you question my sincerity ? 

Dorothy. Sir, between you and me these compli- 
ments are worse than idle : they are unkind. Sure, 
we are alone ! 

Austin. I find you in an hour of cruelty, I fear. 
Yet you have condescended to receive this poor 
offender ; and having done so much, you will not 
refuse to give him audience. 

Dorothy. You shall have no cause, sir, to com- 
plain of me. I listen. 

Austin. My fair friend, I have sent myself — a poor 
ambassador — to plead for your forgiveness. I have 
been too long absent ; too long, I would fain hope, 
madam, for you ; too long for my honour and my 
love. I am no longer, madam, in my first youth ; but 
I may say that I am not unknown. My fortune, 
158 



BEAU AUSTIN 

originally small, has not suffered from my husbandry. 1 1 1 
I have excellent health, an excellent temper, and the C^ -7 
purest ardour of affection for your person. I found 
not on my merits, but on your indulgence. Miss 
Musgrave, will you honour me with your hand in 
marriage ? 

Dorothy. Mr. Austin, if I thought basely of 
marriage, I should perhaps accept your offer. There 
was a time, indeed, when it would have made me 
proudest among women. I was the more deceived, 
and have to thank you for a salutary lesson. You 
chose to count me as a cipher in your rolls of 
conquest ; for six months you left me to my fate ; 
and you come here to-day — prompted, I doubt not, 
by an honourable impulse — to offer this tardy repa- 
ration. No : it is too late. 

Austin. Do you refuse ? 

Dorothy. Yours is the blame : we are no longer 
equal. You have robbed me of the right to marry 
any one but you ; and do you think me, then, so poor 
in spirit as to accept a husband on compulsion ? 

Austin. Dorothy, you loved me once. 

Dorothy. Ay, you will never guess how much : 
you will never live to understand how ignominious a 
defeat that conquest was. 1 loved and trusted you : 
I judged you by myself; think, then, of my humilia- 
tion, when, at the touch of trial, all your qualities 
proved false, and I beheld you the slave of the 
meanest vanity — selfish, untrue, base ! Think, sir, 

159 



BEAU AUSTIN 

III what a humbling of my pride to have been thus 
Cp -, deceived : to have taken for my idol such a common- 
place imposture as yourself; to have loved— yes, 
loved — such a shadow, such a mockery of man. And 
now 1 am unworthy to be the wife of any gentleman ; 
and you — look me in the face, George — are you 
worthy to be my husband ? 

Austin. No, Dorothy, I am not. I was a vain 
fool ; I blundered away the most precious oppor- 
tunity ; and my regret will be lifelong. Do me the 
justice to accept this full confession of my fault. I 
am here to-day to own and to repair it. 

Dorothy. Repair it? Sir, you condescend too far. 

Austin. I perceive with shame how grievously I 
had misjudged you. But now, Dorothy, believe me, 
my eyes are opened. I plead with you, not as my 
equal, but as one in all ways better than myself. I 
admire you, not in that trivial sense in which we men 
are wont to speak of women, but as God's work : as a 
wise mind, a noble soul, and a most generous heart, 
from whose society I have all to gain, all to learn. 
Dorothy, in one word, I love you. 

Dorothy. And what, sir, has wrought this trans- 
formation ? You knew me of old, or thought you 
knew me ? Is it in six months of selfish absence that 
your mind has changed ? When did that change 
begin ? A week ago ? Sure, you would have written ! 
To-day ? Sir, if this offer be anything more than 
fresh offence, I have a right to be enlightened. 
1 60 



BEAU AUSTIN 

Austin. Madam, I foresaw this question. So be HI 
it : I respect, and I will not deceive you. But give g^ .- 
me, first of all, a moment for defence. There are few 
men of my habits and position who would have done 
as I have done : sate at the feet of a young boy, 
accepted his lessons, gone upon his errand : fewer 
still, who would thus, at the crisis of a love, risk the 
whole fortune of the soul — love, gratitude, even 
respect. Yet more than that ! For conceive how I 
respect you, if I, whose lifelong trade has been 
flattery, stand before you and make the, plain con- 
fession of a truth that must not only lower me, but 
deeply wound yourself. 

Dorothy. What means ? 

Austin. Young Fenwick, my rival for your heart, 
he it was that sent me. 

Dorothy. He ? O disgrace ! He sent you ! 
That was what he meant ? Am I fallen so low ? Am 
I your common talk among men ? Did you dice for 
me ? Did he kneel ? O John, John, how could you ! 
And you, Mr. Austin, whither have you brought me 
down ? shame heaping upon shame — to what end ! 
oh, to what end ? 

Austin. Madam, you wound me : you look wilfully 
amiss. Sure, any lady in the land might well be 
proud to be loved as you are loved, with such nobility 
as Mr. Fenwick's, with such humility as mine. I 
came, indeed, in pity, in good-nature, what you 
will. (See, dearest ladv, with what honesty I speak : 

i6i 



BEAU AUSTIN 

III if I win you, it shall be with the unblemished truth.) 
g^ y All that is gone. Pity ? it is myself I pity. I offer 
you not love — I am not worthy. I ask, I beseech of 
you : suffer me to wait upon you like a servant, to 
serve you with my rank, my name, the whole devotion 
of my life. I am a gentleman — ay, in spite of my 
fault — an upright gentleman ; and I swear to you 
that you shall order your life and mine at your free 
will. Dorothy, at your feet, in remorse, in respect, in 
love — O such love as I have never felt, such love as 
I derided — I implore, I conjure you to be mine ! 

Dorothy. Too late ! too late. 

Austin. No, no, not too late : not too late for 
penitence, not too late for love. 

Dorothy. Which do you propose ? that I should 
abuse your compassion, or reward your treachery ? 
George Austin, I have been your mistress, and I will 
never be your wife. 

Austin. Child, dear child, I have not told you all : 
there is worse still : your brother knows ; the boy as 
good as told me. Dorothy, this is scandal at the 
door — O let that move you : for that, if not for my 
sake, for that, if not for love, trust me, trust me again. 

Dorothy. I am so much the more your victim : 
that is all, and shall that change my heart ? The sin 
must have its wages. This, too, was done long ago : 
when you stooped to lie to me. The shame is still 
mine, the fault still yours. 

Austin. Child, child, you kill me : you will not 
162 



BEAU AUSTIN 

understand. Can you not see? the lad will force me HI 
to a duel. C^, ^ 

Dorothy. And you will kill him ? Shame after 
shame, threat upon threat. Marry me, or you are 
dishonoured ; marry me, or your brother dies : and 
this is man's honour ! But my honour and my pride 
are different. I will encounter all misfortune sooner 
than degrade myself by an unfaithful marriage. How 
should I kneel before the altar, and vow to reverence 
as my husband you, you who deceived me as my 
lover ? 

Austin. Dorothy, you misjudge me cruelly ; I have 
deserved it. You will not take me for your husband ; 
why should I wonder ? You are right. I have 
indeed filled your life with calamity : the wages, ay, 
the wages, of my sin are heavy upon you. But I 
have one more thing to ask of your pity ; and O 
remember, child, who it is that asks it : a man guilty 
in your sight, void of excuse, but old, and very proud, 
and most unused to supplication. Dorothy Musgrave, 
will you forgive George Austin ? 

Dorothy. O, George ! 

Austin. It is the old name : that is all I ask, and 
more than I deserve. I shall remember, often 
remember, how and where it was bestowed upon me 
for the last time. I thank you, Dorothy, from my 
heart ; a heart, child, that has been too long silent, 
but is not too old, I thank God ! not yet too old, to 
learn a lesson and to accept a reproof, I will not 

163 



BEAU AUSTIN 

III keep you longer : I will go — I am so bankrupt in 
Cp -7 credit that I dare not ask you to believe in how much 
sorrow. But, Dorothy, my acts will speak for me 
with more persuasion. If it be in my power, you 
shall suffer no more through me : I will avoid your 
brother ; I will leave this place, I will leave England, 
to-morrow ; you shall be no longer tortured with the 
neighbourhood of your ungenerous lover. Dorothy, 
farewell ! 

SCENE VIII 

Dorothy ; to whom, Anthony, L. 

3(^3 Dorothy (on her knees, and reaching with her 

hands.) George, George ! {Enter Anthony.) 

Anthony. Ha ! what are you crying for ? 

Dorothy. Nothing, dear ! {Rising.) 

Anthony. Is Austin going to marry you ? 

Dorothy. I shall never marry. 

Anthony. I thought as much. You should have 
come to me. 

Dorothy. I know, dear, I know ; but there was 
nothing to come about. 

Anthony. It's a lie. You have disgraced the 
family. You went to John Fenwick : see what he 
has made of it ! But I will have you righted : it shall 
be atoned in the man's blood. 

Dorothy. Anthony ! And if I had refused him ? 

Anthony. You ? refuse George Austin ? You 
never had the chance. 
164 



BEAU AUSTIN 

Dorothy. I have refused him. HI 

Anthony. Dorothy, you lie. You would shield Sc 8 
your lover ; but this concerns not you only : it strikes 
my honour and my father's honour. 

Dorothy. I have refused him — refused him, I tell 
you — refused him. The blame is mine ; are you so 
mad and wicked that you will not see ? 

Anthony. I see this : that man must die. 

Dorothy. He ? never ! You forget, you forget 
whom you defy ; you run upon your death. 

Anthony. Ah, my girl, you should have thought 
of that before. It is too late now. 

Dorothy. Anthony, if I beg you— Anthony, I 
have tried to be a good sister ; I brought you up, 
dear, nursed you when you were sick, fought for you, 
hoped for you, loved you — think of it, think of the 
dear past, think of our home and the happy winter 
nights, the castles in the fire, the long shining future, 
the love that was to forgive and suffer always — O you 
will spare, you will spare me this. 

Anthony. I will tell you what I will do, Dolly : I 
will do just what you taught me — my duty : that, and 
nothing else. 

Dorothy. O Anthony, you also, you to strike me ! 
Heavens, shall I kill them — 1 — 1, that love them, kill 
them! Miserable, sinful girl! George, George, 
thank God, you will be far away ! O go, George, go 
at once ! 

Anthony. He goes, the coward ! Ay, is this more 

165 



BEAU AUSTIN 

III of your contrivance ? Madam, you make me blush. 
C^ g But to-day at least I know where I can find him. 
This afternoon, on the Pantiles, he must dance atten- 
dance on the Duke of York. Already he must be 
there ; and there he is at my mercy. 

Dorothy. Thank God, you are deceived : he will 
not fight. He promised me that ; thank God I have 
his promise for that. 

Anthony. Promise ! Do you see this ? {producing 
necklace) the thing he bribed your maid with ? I shall 
dash it in his teeth before the Duke and before all 
Tunbridge. Promise, you poor fool ? what promise 
holds against a blow ? Get to your knees and pray 
for him ; for, by the God above, if he has any blood 
in his body, one of us shall die before to-night. [He 
goes out.) 

Dorothy. Anthony, Anthony ! . . . O my God, 
George will kill him. 

Music : ' Che faro,'' as the drop falls. 



Drop. 



1 66 



Musical Induction: 'Gavotte;' ^Iphigenie en Aulide.' 

Gluck 

ACT IV 

The Stage represents the Pantiles : the alleys fronting the spectators 

in parallel lines. At the back., a stand of musicians, /rotn which the 

' Gavotte ' is repeated on Jiiutcd strings. The music continues 

nearly through Scene J. Visitors loalking to and fro 

beneath the limes, A seat in front, L. 

SCENE I 
Miss Foster, Barbara, Menteith ; Visitors 

IV 

Miss Foster {entering j escorted by Menteith, c„ j 
and followed by Barbara). And so, Menteith, here 
you are once more. And vastly pleased I am to see 
you, my good fellow, not only for your own sake, 
but because you harbinger the Beau. {Sits., L. ; 
Menteith standing over her.) 

Menteith. Honoured madam, I have had the 
pleasure to serve Mr. George for more than thirty 
years. This is a privilege — a very great privilege. I 
have beheld him in the first societies, moving among 

167 



BEAU AUSTIN 

IV the first rank of personages ; and none, madam, none 
Cq j outshone him. 

Barbara. I assure you, madam, when Mr. Menteith 
took me to the play, he talked so much of Mr. Austin 
that I couldn't hear a word of Mr. Kean. 

Miss Foster. Well, well, and very right. That 
was the old school of service, Barbara, which you 
would do well to imitate. This is a child, Menteith, 
that I am trying to form. 

Menteith. Quite so, madam. 

Miss Foster. And are we soon to see our princely 
guest, Menteith ? 

Menteith. His Royal Highness, madam ? I 
believe I may say quite so. Mr. George will receive 
our gallant prince upon the Pantiles {looking at his 
watch) in, I should say, a matter of twelve minutes 
from now. Such, madam, is Mr. George's order of 
the day. 

Barbara. I beg your pardon, madam, I am sure, 
but are we really to see one of His Majesty's own 
brothers ? That will be pure ! O madam, this is 
better than Carlisle. 

Miss Foster. The wood-note wild : a loyal 
Cumbrian, Menteith. 

Menteith. Eh? Quite so, madam. 

Miss Foster. When she has seen as much of the 
Royal Family as you, my good fellow, she will find it 
vastly less entertaining. 

Menteith. Yes, madam, indeed ; In these distin- 
i68 



BEAU AUSTIN 

guished circles, life is but a slavery. None of the IV 
best set would relish Tunbridge without Mr. George ; C^ y 
Tunbridge and Mr. George (if you'll excuse my plain- 
ness, madam) are in a manner of speaking identified ; 
and indeed it was the Book's desire alone that 
brought us here. 

Barbara. What ? the Duke ? O dear ! was it for 
that ? 

Menteith. Though, to be sure, madam, Mr. 
George would always be charmed to find himself 
{bowing) among so many admired members of his 
own set. 

Miss Foster. Upon my word, Menteith, Mr. 
Austin is as fortunate in his servant as his reputation. 

Menteith. Quite so, madam. But let me observe 
that the opportunities I have had of acquiring a 
knowledge of Mr. George's character have been 
positively unrivalled. Nobody knows Mr. George 
like his old attendant. The goodness of that gentle- 
man — but, madam, you will soon be equally fortu- 
nate, if, as I understand, it is to be a match. 

Miss Foster. I hope, Menteith, you are not taking 
leave of your senses. Is it possible you mean my 
niece ? 

Menteith. Madam, I have the honour to con- 
gratulate you. I put a second curl in Mr George's 
hair on purpose. 



169 



BEAU AUSTIN 

SCENE II 

7(? ///^-J-?, Austin. Me^teith /a//s dac/:, crnd AvsTm 
takes his place in front of Miss Foster, his 
,^j attitude a counterpart of Menteith'S. 

Sc. 2 Austin. Madam, I hasten to present my homage. 

Miss Foster. A truce to comphments ! Menteith, 
your charming fellow there, has set me positively 
crazy. Dear George Austin, is it true ? can it be true ? 

Austin. Madam, if he has been praising your 
niece he has been well inspired. If he was speaking, 
as I spoke an hour ago myself, I wish, Miss Foster, 
that he had held his tongue. I have indeed offered 
myself to Miss Dorothy, and she, with the most 
excellent reason, has refused me. 

Miss Foster. Is it possible ? why, my dear George 
Austin, . . . then I suppose it is John Fenwick after 
all! 

Austin. Not one of us is worthy. 

Miss Foster. This is the most amazing circum- 
stance. You take my breath away. My niece refuse 
George Austin ? why, I give you my word, I thought 
she had adored you. A perfect scandal : it positively 
must not get abroad. 

Austin. Madam, for that young lady I have a 

singular regard. Judge me as tenderly as you can, 

and set it down, if you must, to an old man's vanity — 

for, Evelina, we are no longer in the heyday of our 

170 



BEAU AUSTIN 

youth — ^judge me as you will : I should prefer to have IV 
it known. Cp 2 

Miss Foster. Can you ? George Austin, you ? 
My youth was nothing ; I was a failure ; but for 
you ? no, George, you never can, you never must be 
old. You are the triumph of my generation, George, 
and of our old friendship too. Think of my first 
dance and my first partner. And to have this story 
— no, I could not bear to have it told of you. 

Austin. Madam, there are some ladies over whom 
it is a boast to have prevailed ; there are others 
whom it is a glory to have loved. And I am so 
vain, dear Evelina, that even thus I am proud to link 
my name with that of Dorothy Musgrave. 

Miss Foster. George, you are changed. I would 
not know you. 

Austin. I scarce know myself. But pardon me, 
dear friend (taking out his watch), in less than four 
minutes our illustrous guest will descend amongst 
us ; and I observe Mr. Fenwick, with whom I have 
a pressing business. Suffer me, dear Evelina ! 

SCENE III 

To these, Fenwick. Miss Foster retnains seated, 
L. Austin goes R. to Fenwick, whom he 
salutes with great respect. 

Austin. Mr. Fenwick, 1 have played and lost. Cp ^ 
That noble lady, justly incensed at my misconduct, ' '^ 

171 



BEAU AUSTIN 

IV has condemned me. Under the burden of such a 
Cp ^ loss, may I console myself with the esteem of Mr. 
Fenwick ? 

Fenvvick. She refused you ? Pardon me, sh-, but 
was the fault not yours ? 

Austin. Perhaps to my shame, I am no novice, 
Mr. Fenwick ; but I have never felt nor striven as 
to-day. I went upon your errand ; but, you may 
trust me, sir, before I had done I found it was my 
own. Until to-day I never rightly valued her ; sure, 
she is fit to be a queen. I have a remorse here at 
my heart to which I am a stranger. Oh ! that was a 
brave life, that was a great heart that I have ruined. 

Fenwick. Ay, sir, indeed. 

Austin. But, sir, it is not to lament the irretriev- 
able that I intrude myself upon your leisure. There 
is something to be done, to save, at least to spare, 
that lady. You did not fail to observe the brother ? 

Fenwick. No, sir, he knows all ; and being both 
intemperate and ignorant 

Austin. Surely. I know. I have to ask you 
then to find what friends you can among this 
company ; and if you have none, to make them. Let 
everybody hear the news. Tell it (if I may offer the 
suggestion) with humour : how Mr. Austin, somewhat 
upon the wane, but still filled with sufficiency, 
gloriously presumed and was most ingloriously set 
down by a young lady from the nortli : the lady's 
name a secret, which you will permit to be divined. 
172 



BEAU AUSTIN 

The laugh — the position of the hero — will make it IV 
circulate ; — you perceive I am in earnest ; — and in Cp ^ 
this way 1 believe our young friend will find himself 
forestalled. 

Fenwick. Mr. Austin, I would not have dared to 
ask so much of you ; I will go further : were the 
positions changed, I should fear to follow your 
example. 

Austin. Child, child, you could not afford it. 

SCENE IV 

To these, the Royal Duke, C. j then, immediately, 
Anthony, L. Fenwick crosses to M iss Foster, 
R. Austin accosts the Duke, C, in dumb 
shozu ; the mjifed strings take up a new air, 
Mozarf s ' Anglaise\- couples passing under the 
limes, atid formittg a group behind AUSTIN and 
the Duke. Anthony in front, L., watches 
Austin, who, as he turns from the Duke, sees 
him, and comes forward with extended hand. 

Austin. Dear child, let me present you to his Sc. 4 
Royal Highness. 

Anthony {tvith necklace). Mr. Austin, do you 
recognise the bribe you gave my sister's maid ? 

Austin. Hush, sir, hush ! you forget the presence 
of the Duke. 

Anthony. Mr. Austin, you are a coward and a 
scoundrel. 

-^11 



BEAU AUSTIN 

IV Austin. My child, you will regret these words : I 

Sc A. ^^^^^^ your quarrel. 

Anthony. You do? Take that, {//e strikes 
Austin ou the mouth. At the moment of the 
blow ) 

• SCENE V 

To these, Dorothy, L. U. E. Dorothy, unseen by 
Austin, shrieks. Sensation. Music stops. Tableau. 

3q r Austin {recovering his cotnposure). Your Royal 

Highness, suffer me to excuse the disrespect of this 
young gentleman. He has so much apology, and I 
have, I hope, so good a credit, as incline me to 
accept this blow. But I must beg of your Highness, 
and, gentlemen, all of you here present, to bear with 
me while I will explain what is too capable of mis- 
construction. I am the rejected suitor of this young 
gentleman's sister ; of Miss Dorothy Musgrave : a 
lady whom I singularly honour and esteem ; a word 
from whom (if I could hope that word) would fill my 
life with happiness. I was not worthy of that lady ; 
when I was defeated in fair field, 1 presumed to 
make advances through her maid. See in how 
laughable manner fate repaid me ! The waiting- 
girl derided, the mistress denied, and now comes in 
this very ardent champion who publicly insults me. 
My vanity is cured; you will judge it right, I 
am persuaded, all of you, that I should accept my 
174 



BEAU AUSTIN 

proper punishment in silence ; you, my Lord Duke, IV 
to pardon this young gentleman ; and you, Mr. Cp j- 
Musgrave, to spare me further provocation, which I 
am determined to ignore. 

Dorothy {rushing forward, falling at Austin's 
knees, and seizing his hand). George, George, it 
was for me. My hero ! take me ! What you will ! 

Austin {in an agony). My dear creature, remember 
that we are in public. {Raising her.) Your Royal 
Highness, may I present you Mrs. George P'rederick 
Austin? {The Curtain falls on a few bars of the 
'' Lass of Richmond Hill.'') 



THE END 



175 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 



177 



DEDICATED 

WITH AFFECTION ANDES TEEM 

TO ANDREW LANG BY 

THE SURVIVORS OF 

THE IF A L R US 



Savannah, this 27M day of 
September 1884 



i8o 



PERSOXS REPRESENTED 

John Gaunt, called 'Admiral Guinea,' once Captain of the Slaver 
Arethusa. 

Arethusa Gaunt, his Daughter. 

David Pew, a Blind Beggar, once Boatswain of the Arethusa. 

Kit French, a Privateersman. 

Mrs. Drake, Landlady of the Adtniral Benboiv Inn. 



The Scene is laid in the neighbourhood of Barnstaple. The Time is 
about the year 1760. The action occupies part of a day and night. 



Note. — Passages suggested for otnission iti representation are 
enclosed in square brackets, thus [ ]. 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 



ACT I 

The Stage represents a room in Admiral Guinen''S house : fire- 
place, artn-chair, and table ivith Bible, /,., toivards the front ; door 
C, 7vith luindotv on each side, the ■svindoin on the R., practicable ; 
doors, J\. and L., back ; corner cupboard, a brass-strapped sea-chest ^ 

fixed to the -ivall and floor, R.; cutlasses, telescopes, sextant, 
(Quadrant, a calendar, and several viaps upon the luall ; a ship 
clock; three tuooden chairs ; a dresser against tvall, R. C; on the 
chimfiey-piece the model of a brig and several shells. The 
centre bare of furtiiture. Through the windoivs 
and the door, ivliich is open, green trees 
and a small field of sea. 

SCENE I 

Arethusa is discovered, dusting t 

Arethusa. Ten months and a week to-day ! Sc. I 
Now for a new mark. Since the last, the sun has set 
and risen over the fields and the pleasant trees at 
home, and on Kit's lone ship and the empty sea. 
Perhaps it blew ; perhaps rained ; {at the chart) 
perhaps he was far up here to the nor'ard, where the 

i8i 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

I icebergs sail ; perhaps at anchor among these wild 

Cp J islands of the snakes and buccaneers. O, you big- 
chart, if I could see him sailing on you ! North and 
South Atlantic ; such a weary sight of water and no 
land ; never an island for the poor lad to land upon. 
But still, God's there. [She takes down the telescope 
to dust it.) Father's spy-glass again ; and my poor 
Kit perhaps with such another, sweeping the great 
deep ! 

SCENE II 

Arethusa ; to her Kit, C. [He enters on tiptoe, 
and she does not see or hear hini] 

Sc. 2 Arethusa [dusting telescope). At sea they have 

less dust at least : that's so much comfort. 

Kit. Sv/eetheart, ahoy ! 

Arethusa. Kit ! 

Kit. Arethusa. 

Arethusa. My Kit ! Home again — O my love ! 
— home again to me ! 

Kit. As straight as wind and tide could carry me ! 

Arethusa. O Kit, my dearest. O Kit — O ! O ! 

Kit. Hey ? Steady, lass : steady, 1 say. For 
goodness' sake, ease it off. 

Arethusa. I will. Kit — I will. But you came so 
sudden. 

Kit. I thought ten months of it about preparation 
enough. 
182 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Arethusa. Ten months and a week : you haven't I 

counted the days as I have. Another day gone, and Cq 2 
one day nearer to Kit : that has been my ahiianac. 
How brown you are ! how handsome ! 

Kit. a pity you can't see yourself ! Well, no, I'll 
never be handsome : brown I may be, never hand- 
some. But I'm better than that, if the proverb's 
true ; for I'm ten hundred thousand fathoms deep in 
love. I bring you a faithful sailor. What ! you 
don't think much of that for a curiosity ? Well, 
that's so : you're right ; the rarity is in the girl 
that's worth it ten times over. Faithful ? I couldn't 
help it if I tried ! No, sweetheart, and I fear 
nothing : I don't know what fear is, but just of losing 
you. {Starting.) Lord, that's not the Admiral ? 

Arethusa. Aha, Mr. Dreadnought ! you see you 
fear my father. 

Kit. That I do. But, thank goodness, it's nobody. 
Kiss me : no, I won't kiss you : kiss me. I'll give 
you a present for that. See ! 

Arethusa. A wedding-ring ! 

Kit. My mother's. Will you take it ? 

Arethusa. Yes, will I — and give myself for it. 

Kit. Ah, if we could only count upon your father ! 
He's a man every inch of him ; but he can't endure 
Kit French. 

Arethusa. He hasn't learned to know you, Kit, as 
I have, nor yet do you know him. He seems hard 
and violent ; at heart he is only a man overwhelmed 

18:! 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

I with sorrow. Why else, when he looks at me and 

g^ 2 does not know that I observe him, should his face 
change, and fill with such tenderness, that I could 
weep to see him ? Why, when he walks in his sleep, 
as he does almost every night, his eyes open and 
beholding nothing, why should he cry so pitifully on 
my mother's name? Ah, if you could hear him then, 
you would say yourself : here is a man that has loved ; 
here is a man that will be kind to lovers. 

Kit. Is that so ? Ay, it's a hard thing to lose your 
wife ; ay, that must cut the heart indeed. But for all 
that, my lass, your father is keen for the doubloons. 

Arethusa. Right, Kit : and small blame to him. 
There is only one way to be honest, and the name of 
that is thrift. 

Kit. Well, and that's my motto. I've left the 
ship ; no more letter of marque for me. Good-bye to 
Kit French, privateersman's mate ; and how-d'ye-do 
to Christopher, the coasting skipper. I've seen the 
very boat for me : I've enough to buy her, too ; and 
to furnish a good house, and keep a shot in the locker 
for bad luck. So far, there's nothing to gainsay. So 
far it's hopeful enough ; but still there's Admiral 
Guinea, you know — and the plain truth is that I'm 
afraid of him. 

Arethusa. Admiral Guinea ? Now Kit, if you are 

to be true lover of mine, you shall not use that name. 

His name is Captain Gaunt. As for fearing him. Kit 

French, you're not the man for me, if you fear any- 

184 ' 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

thing but sin. He's a stern man because he's in the I 

right. _t^^ 2 

Kit. He is a man of God ; I am what he calls a 
child of perdition. I was a privateersman — serving 
my country, I say ; but he calls it pirate. He is 
thrifty and sober ; he has a treasure, they say, and it 
lies so near his heart that he tumbles up in his sleep 
to stand watch over it. What has a harum-scarum 
dog like me to expect from a man like him ? He 
won't see I'm starving for a chance to mend ; ' Mend,' 
he'll say ; ' I'll be shot if you mend at the expense of 
my daughter ; ' and the worst of it is, yod see, he'll 
be right. 

Arethusa. Kit, if you dare to say that faint- 
hearted word again, I'll take my ring off. What 
are we here for but to grow better or grow worse ? 
Do you think Arethusa French will be the same as 
Arethusa Gaunt ? 

Kit. I don't want her better. 

Arethusa, Ah, but she shall be ! 

Kit. Hark, here he is ! By George, it's neck or 
nothing now. Stand by to back me up. 

SCENE HI 

To these, Gaunt, C. 

Kit {with Arethusa's hand). Captain Gaunt, I gc. 3 
have come to ask you for your daughter. 
Gaunt. Hum. {He sits in his chair, L.) 

185 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

I Kit. I love her, and she loves me, sir. I've left the 

Cp .J privateering. I've enough to set me up and buy a 
tidy sloop — Jack Lee's ; you know the boat, Captain ; 
clinker built, not four years old, eighty tons burthen, 
steers like a child, I've put my mother's ring on 
Arethusa's finger ; and if you'll give us your blessing, 
I'll engage to turn over a new leaf, and make her a 
good husband. 

Gaunt. In whose strength, Christopher French ? 

Kit. In the strength of my good, honest love for 
her : as you did for her mother, and my father for 
mine. And you know, Captain, a man can't command 
the wind ; but (excuse me, sir) he can always lie the 
best course possible, and that's what I'll do, so God 
help me. 

Gaunt. Arethusa, you at least are the child of 
many prayers ; your eyes have been unsealed ; and 
to you the world stands naked, a morning watch for 
duration, a thing spun of cobwebs for solidity. In the 
presence of an angry God, I ask you : have you heard 
this man ? 

Arethusa. Father, I know Kit, and I love him. 

Gaunt. I say it solemnly, this is no Christian 
union. To you, Christopher French, I will speak 
nothing of eternal truths ; I will speak to you the 
language of this world. You have been trained 
among sinners who gloried in their sin : in your 
whole life you never saved one farthing ; and now, 
when your pockets are full, you think you can begin, 
1 86 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

poor dupe, in your own strength. You are a roysterer, I 

a jovial companion ; you mean no harm — you are Cp ^ 
nobody's enemy but your own. No doubt you tell 
this girl of mine, and no doubt you tell yourself, that 
you can change. Christopher, speaking under correc- 
tion, I defy you ! You ask me for this child of many 
supplications, for this brand plucked from the burn- 
ing : I look at you ; I read you through and through ; 
and I tell you — no ! {Striking tabic luith his fist.) 

Kit. Captain Gaunt, if you mean that I am not 
worthy of her, I'm the first to say so. But, if you'll 
excuse me, sir, I'm a young man, and young men are 
no better'n they ought to be ; it's known ; they're all 
like that ; and what's their chance ? To be married 
to a girl like this ! And would you refuse it to me ? 
Why, sir, you yourself, when you came courting, you 
were young and rough ; and yet I'll make bold to say 
that Mrs. Gaunt was a happy woman, and the saving 
of yourself into the bargain. Well, now. Captain 
Gaunt, will you deny another man, and that man a 
sailor, the very salvation that you had yourself? 

Gaunt. Salvation, Christopher French, is from 
above. 

Kit. Well, sir, that is so ; but there's means, too ; 
and what means so strong as the wife a man has to 
strive and toil for, and that bears the punishment 
whenever he goes wrong ? Now, sir, I've spoke with 
your old shipmates in the Guinea trade. Hard as 
nails, they said, and true as the compass : as rough 

187 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

I as a slaver, but as just as a judge. Well, sir, you 

Cp 5 hear me plead : I ask you for my chance ; don't you 
* deny it to me. 

Gaunt. You speak of me ? In the true balances 
we both weigh nothing. But two things I know : the 
depth of iniquity, how foul it is ; and the agony with 
which a man repents. Not until seven devils were 
cast out of me did I awake ; each rent me as it 
passed. Ay, that was repentance. Christopher, 
Christopher, you have sailed before the wind since 
first you weighed your anchor, and now you think to 
sail upon a bowline ? You do not know your ship, 
young man : you will go to le'ward like a sheet of 
paper ; I tell you so that know— I tell you so that 
have tried, and failed, and wrestled in the sweat of 
prayer, and at last, at last, have tasted grace. But, 
meanwhile, no flesh and blood of mine shall lie at the 
mercy of such a wretch as I was then, or as you are 
this day. I could not own the deed before the face 
of heaven if I sanctioned this unequal yoke. Arethusa, 
pluck off that ring from off your finger. Christopher 
French, take it, and go hence. 

Kit. Arethusa, uhat do you say? 

Arethusa. O Kit, you know my heart. But he is 
alone, and I am his only comfort ; and I owe all to 
him ; and shall I not obey my father ? But, Kit, if 
you will let me, I will keep your ring. Go, Kit ; go, 
and prove to my father that he was mistaken ; go and 
win me. And O, Kit, if ever you should weary, come 
i88 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

to me — no, do not come ! but send a word — and I I 

shall know all, and you shall have your ring. (Gaunt g^ -, 
opens his Bible and begins to read.) 

Kit. Don't say that, don't say such things to me ; 
I sink or swim with you. (7(? Gaunt.) Old man, 
you've struck me hard ; give me a good word to go 
with. Name your time ; I'll stand the test. Give 
me a spark of hope, and I'll fight through for it. Say 
just this— ' Prove I was mistaken,' and by George, 
I'll prove it. 

Gaunt [looking up). I make no such compacts. 
Go, and swear not at all. 

Arethusa. Go, Kit ! I keep the ring. 

SCENE IV 
Arethusa, Gaunt 

Arethusa. Father, what have we done that you Sc. A. 
should be so cruel ? 

Gaunt {laying dowii Bible, and rising). Do you 
call me cruel ? You speak after the flesh. I have 
done you this day a service that you will live to bless 
me for upon your knees. 

Arethusa. He loves me, and I love him : you can 
never alter that ; do what you will, father, that can 
never change. I love him, I believe in him, I will be 
true to him. 

Gaunt. Arethusa, you are the sole thing death has 

189 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

I left me on this earth ; and I must watch over your 

Cp A carnal happiness and your eternal weal. You do not 
know what this implies to me. Your mother — my 
Hester — tongue cannot tell, nor heart conceive the 
pangs she suffered. If it lies in me, your life shall 
not be lost on that same reef of an ungodly husband. 
(Goes out, C) 

SCENE V 

Arethusa 



Sc. 5 



Arethusa. I thought the time dragged long and 
weary when I knew that Kit was homeward bound, 
all the white sails a-blovving out towards England, 
and my Kit's face turned this way ? {She begins to 
dust.) Sure, if my mother were here, she would 
understand and help us ; she would understand a 
young maid's heart, though her own had never an 
ache ; and she would love my Kit. {Futtitig back 
the telescope.') To think she died : husband and child 
— and so much love — she was taken from them all. 
Ah, there is no parting but the grave ! And Kit and 
I both live, and both love each other ; and here am I 
cast down? O, Arethusa, shame! And your love 
home from the deep seas, and loving you still ; and 
the sun shining ; and the world all full of hope ? O, 
hope, you're a good word ! 



190 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 



SCENE VI 
Arethusa ; to her, Pew 
Pew {singing without) — 

'Time for us to go ! 
Time for us to go ! 
And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away, 
For it's time for us to go.' 

Arethusa. Who comes here? a seaman by his 
song, and father out ! {She tries the air) ' Time for 
us to go ! ' It sounds a wild kind of song. {Tap- 
tap; V^^ passes the ivindow.) O, what a face, and 
blind ! 

Pew {entering). Kind Christian friends, take pity 
on a poor blind mariner, as lost his precious sight 
in the defence of his native country, England, and 
God bless King George ! 

Arethusa. What can I do for you, sailor ? 

Pew. Good Christian lady, help a poor blind 
mariner to a mouthful of meat. I've served His 
Majesty in every quarter of the globe ; I've spoke 
with 'Awke and glorions Anson, as I might with you ; 
and I've tramped it all night long, upon my sinful 
feet, and with a empty belly. 

Arethusa. You shall not ask bread and be denied 
by a sailor's daughter and a sailor's sweetheart ; and 
when my father returns he shall give you something 
to set you on your road. 

191 



I 

Sc.6 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

I Pew. Kind and lovely lady, do you tell me that 

Sc 6 y°" '^^^ ^^ '-^ manner of speaking alone ? or do my 
ears deceive a poor blind seaman ? 

Arethusa. I live here with my father, and my 
father is abroad. 

Pew. Dear, beautifvil, Christian lady, tell a poor 
blind man your honoured name, that he may re- 
member it in his poor blind prayers. 

Arethusa. Sailor, I am Arethusa Gaunt. 

Pew. Sweet lady, answer a poor blind man one 
other question : are you in a manner of speaking 
related to Cap'n John Gaunt ? Cap'n John as in the 
ebony trade were known as Admiral Guinea ? 

Arethusa. Captain John Gaunt is my father. 

Pew (ii7'oppiiig the blind mail's luhine). Lord, 
think of that now ! They told me this was where he 
lived, and so it is. And here's old Pew, old David 
Pew, as was the Admiral's own bo'sun, colloguing in 
his old commander's parlour, with his old com- 
mander's gal {seizes Arethusa). Ah, and a bouncer 
you are, and no mistake. 

Arethusa. Let me go ! how dare you ? 

Pew. Lord love you, don't you struggle, now, 
don't you ? {She escapes into front R. corner, where 
he keeps her imprisoned.) Ah, well, we'll get you 
again, my lovely woman. What a arm you've got — 
great god of love — and a face like a peach ! Pm a 
judge, I am. {She tries to escape j he stops her.) 
No, you don't ; O, I can hear a flea jump ! [But it's 
192 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

here where I miss my deadlights. Poor old Pew ; J 

him as the ladies always would have for their fancy Cp g 
man and take no denial ; here you are with your 
commander's daughter close aboard, and you can't 
so much as guess the colour of her lovely eyes. 
{Sifiging)— 

' Be they black like ebony. 
Or be they blue like to the sky.' 

Black like the Admiral's ? or blue like his poor dear 
wife's ? Ah, I was fond of that there woman, I was: 
the Admiral was jealous of me.] Arethusa, my dear, 
— my heart, what a 'and and arm you have got ; I'll 
dream o' that 'and and arm, I will ! — but as I was 
a-saying, does the Admiral ever in a manner ot 
speaking" refer to his old bo'sun David Pew ? him as 
he fell out with about the black woman at Lagos, and 
almost slashed the shoulder off of him one morning 
before breakfast ? 

Arethusa. You leave this house. 

Pew. Yity'i [He closi's and seizes her again.) Don't 
you fight, my lovely one : now don't make old blind 
Pew forget his manners before a female. What ! 
you will ? Stop that, or I'll have the arm right out 
of your body. [He gives her arm a wrench.) 

Arethusa. O ! help, help ! 

Pew. Stash your patter, damn you. (Arethusa 
gives in.) Ah, I thought it : Pew's way, Pew's way. 
Now, look you here,- my lovely woman. If you sling 
in another word that isn't in answer to my questions, 

193 



ADMIPAL GUINEA 

I I'll pull your j'ints out one by cne. Where's the 

Cp g Commander ? 

Arethusa. I have said : he is abroad. 

Pew. When's he coming aboard again ? 

Arethusa. At any moment. 

Pew. Does he keep his strength ? 

Arethusa. You'll see when he returns. {He 
wrenches her arm again.) Ah ! 

Pew. Is he still on piety ? 

Arethusa. O, he is a Christian man ! 

Pew. a Christian man, is he ? Where does he 
keep his rum ? 

Arethusa. Nay, you shall steal nothing by my 
help. 

Pew. '^o i\\oxe\s\\?L\\{beco!itifig atnorous). You're 
a lovely woman, that's what you are ; how would 
you like old Pew for a sweetheart, hey ? He's blind, 
is Pew, but strong as a lion ; and the sex is his 'ole 
delight. Ah, them beautiful, beautiful lips ! A kiss ! 
Come ! 

Arethusa. Leave go, leave go ! 

Pew. Hey ? you would ? 

Arethusa. Ah ! {She thrusts him down, and 
escapes to door, R.) 

SCENE VII 

Sc. 7 Pew {picking himself tip). Ah, she's a bouncer, 
she is ! Where's my stick ? That's the sort of 
194 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

female for David Pew. Didn't she fight ? and didn't I 

she struggle? and shouldn't I like to twist her lovely Cp ij 
neck for her ? Pew's way with 'em all : the prettier 
they was, the uglier he were to 'em. Pew's way : a 
way he had with him ; and a damned good way too. 
[Listens at L. door.) That's her bedroom, I reckon ; 
and she's double-locked herself in. Good again : 
it's a crying mercy the AdmiralMidn't come in. But 
you always loses your 'ed, Pew, with a female : that's 
what charms 'em. Now for business. The front 
door. No bar ; on'y a big lock (trying keys from his 
pocket). Key one ; no go. Key two ; ncTgo. Key 
three ; ah, that does it. Ah ! {feeling key) him with 
the three wards and the little 'un : good again ! 
Now if I could only find a mate in this rotten country 
'amlick : one to be eyes to me ; I can steer, but I 
can't conn myself, worse luck ! If I could only find 
a mate ! And to-night, about three bells in the 
middle watch, old Pew will take a little cruise, and 
lay aboard his ancient friend the Admiral ; or, 
barring that, fhe Admiral's old sea-chest — the chest 
he kept the shiners in aboard the brig. Where is it, 
I wonder ? in his berth, or in the cabin here ? It's 
big enough, and the brass bands is plain to feel 
by. {Searching aboict with stick.) Dresser — chair 
— {knocking his head on the clipboard.) Ah ! — O, 
corner cupboard. Admiral's chair — Admiral's table 
— Admiral's — hey ! what's this ? — a book — sheepskin 
— smells like a 'oly Bible. Chair {his stick Just 

195 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

I avoids the chest). No sea-chest. I must have a 
Cp <7 mate to see for me, to see for old Pew : him as 
had eyes like a eagle ! Meanwhile, rum. Corner 
cupboard, of course {tap-tapping). Rum — rum — rum. 
Hey ? {He listens.) Footsteps. Is it the Admiral ? 
{With the whine.). Kind Christian friends 

SCENE VIII 
Pew ; to him Gaunt 

Cp Q Gaunt. What brings you here ? 

Pew. Cap'n, do my ears deceive me ? or is this my 
old commander ? 

Gaunt. My name is John Gaunt. Who are you, 
my man, and what's your business ? 

Pew. Here's the facks, so help me. A lovely 
female in this house, was Christian enough to pity 
the poor blind ; and lo and be'old ! who should she 
turn out to be but my old commander's daughter ! 
' My dear,' says I to her, ' I was the Admiral's own 
particular bo'sun.' — ' La, sailor,' she says to me, ' how 
glad he'll be to see you ! ' — ' Ah,' says I, ' won't he 
just — that's all.' — ' I'll go and fetch him,' she says ; 
' you make yourself at 'ome.' And off she went ; 
and. Commander, here I am. 

Gaunt [sitting down). Well ? 

Pew. Well, Cap'n ? 

Gaunt. What do you want ? 

Pew. Well, Admiral, in a general way, what I 
196 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

want in a manner of speaking is money and rum. I 

{A pause.) Sc. 

Gaunt. David Pew, I have known you a long 
time. 

Pew. And so you have ; aboard the old AretJnisa; 
and you don't seem that cheered up as I'd looked 
for, with an old shipmate dropping in, one as has 
been seeking you two years and more — and blind at 
that. Don't you remember the old chantie ? — 

' Time for us to go, 
Time for us to go, 
And when we'd clapped the hatches on,/ 
'Twas time for us to go.' 

What a note you had to sing, what a swaller for a 
pannikin of rum, and what a fist for the shiners ! 
Ah, Cap'n, they didn't call you Admiral Guinea for 
nothing. I can see that old sea-chest of yours — her 
with the brass bands, where you kept your gold dust 
and doubloons : you know ! — I can see her as well 
this minute as though you and me was still at it 
playing put on the lid of her. . . . You don't say 
nothing, Cap'n? . . . Well, here it is : I want money 
and I want rum. You don't know what it is to want 
rum, you don't : it gets to that p'int, that you would 
kill a 'ole ship's company for just one guttle of it. 
What ? Admiral Guinea, my old Commander, go 
back on poor old Pew ? and him high and dry ? 
[Not you ! When we had words over the negro lass 
at Lagos, what did you do ? fair dealings was your 

197 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

I word : fair as between man and man ; and we had it 

Cp <? out with p'int and edge on Lagos sands. And you're 

not going back on your word to me, now I'm old and 

bUnd ? No, no ! belay that, I say. Give me the old 

motto : Fair dealings, as between man and man.] 

Gaunt. David Pew, it were better for you that 
you were sunk in fifty fathom. I know your life ; 
and first and last, it is one broadside of wickedness- 
You were a porter in a school, and beat a boy to 
death ; you ran for it, turned slaver, and shipped 
with me, a green hand. Ay, that was the craft for 
you : that was the right craft, and I was the right 
captain ; there was none worse that sailed to Guinea. 
Well, what came of that ? In five years' time you 
made yourself the terror and abhorrence of your 
messmates. The worst hands detested you ; your 
captain — that was me, John Gaunt, the chief of 
sinners — cast you out for a Jonah. [Who was it 
stabbed the Portuguese and made off inland with his 
miserable wife ? Who, raging drunk on rum, clapped 
fire to the baracoons and burned the poor soulless 
creatures in their chains?] Ay, you were a scandal 
to the Guinea coast, from Lagos down to Calabar? 
and when at last I sent you ashore, a marooned man 
— your shipmates, devils as they were, cheering and 
rejoicing to be quit of you — by heaven, it was a ton's 
weight off the brig ! 

Pew. Cap'n Gaunt, Cap'n Gaunt, these are ugly 
words. 
iq8 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Gaunt. What next ? You shipped with Fhnt the I 

Pirate. What you did then I know not ; the deep c^ o 
seas have kept the secret : kept it, ay, and will keep 
against the Great Day. God smote you with blind- 
ness, but you heeded not the sign. That was His 
last mercy ; look for no more. To your knees, man, 
and repent. Pray for a new heart ; flush out your 
sins with tears ; flee while you may from the terrors 
of the wrath to come. 

Pew. Now, I want this clear : Do I understand 
that you're going back on me, and you'll see me 
damned first ? 

Gaunt. Of me you shall have neither money nor 
strong drink : not a guinea to spend in riot ; not a 
drop to fire your heart with devilry. 

Pew. Cap'n, do you think it wise to quarrel with 
me ? I put it to you now, Cap'n, fairly as between 
man and man — do you think it wise ? 

Gaunt, I fear nothing. My feet are on the Rock. 
Begone ! {He opens the Bible and begins to read.) 

Pew {after a pause). Well, Cap'n, you know best, 
no doubt ; and David Pew's about the last man, 
though I says it, to up and thwart an old Commander. 
You've been 'ard on David Pew, Cap'n : 'ard on the 
poor blind ; but you'll live to regret it — ah, my 
Christian friend, you'll live to eat them words up. 
But there's no malice here : that ain't Pew's way ; 
here's a sailor's hand upon it. . . . You don't say 
nothing? (Gavht titrns a page.) Ah, reading, was 

199 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

I you ? Reading, by thunder ! Well, here's my 

Cj, g respecks {singing) — 

' Time for us to go, 
Time for us to go, 
When the money's out, and the liquor's done, 
Why, it's time for us to go.' 

{He goes tapping up to door, turns on the threshold, 
and listens. Gaunt turns a page. Pew, with a 
grimace, strikes his hand upon the pocket ivith the 
keys, and goes.) 



Drop. 



200 



ACT II 

The stage represents the parlour of the ''Admiral Benbow^ inn. Fire- 
place, R., ivith high-backed settles on each side ; in front o/thesi:, and 
facing the audience, J\., a small table laid ivith a cloth. Tables, L., 
•2vith glasses, pipes, etc. Broadside ballads on the luall. Outer door 
of inn, with half door in L., corner back ; door, R,, beyond the 
fire-place ; iui>ido'-.v ivith red half-curtains ; spittoons ; 
candles on both the front tables ; night ivithout 

SCENE I 

Pew ; afterwards Mrs. Drake, out and in j y 

Vy^^ (entering). Kind Christian friends {listen- Sc. I 

ing; then dropping the whine.) Hey? nobody! 
Hey ? A grog-shop not two cable-lengths from the 
Admiral's back-door, and the Admiral not there ? I 
never knew a seaman brought so low : he ain't but the 
bones of the man he used to be. Bear away for the 
New Jerusalem, and this is what you run aground on, 
is it ? Good again ; but it ain't Pew's way ; Pew's 
way is rum. — Sanded floor. Rum is his word, and 
rum his motion. — Settle— chimbley — settle again — 
spittoon — table rigged for supper. Table — glass. 
{Drinks heeltap.) Brandy and water ; and not 

20I 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

II enough of it to wet your eye ; damn all greediness, 

C^ J I say. Pot {drinks), small beer — a drink that I ab'or 

like bilge ! What I want is rum. ( Calling, and 

rapping with stick on table.) Halloa, there ! House, 

ahoy ! 

Mrs. Drake [without). Coming, sir, coming. 

(She enters, R.) What can I do ? (Seeing Pew.) 

Well I never did ! Now, beggar-man, what's for you ? 

[Pew, Rum, ma'am, rum ; and a bit o' supper. 

Mrs. Drake. And a bed to follow, I shouldn't 
wonder ! 

Pew. A7id a bed to follow : if you. please.] 

Mrs. Drake. This is the 'Admiral Benbow,' a 
respectable house, and receives none but decent 
company ; and I'll ask you to go somewhere else, 
for 1 don't like the looks of you. 

Pew. Turn me away ? Why, Lord love you, I'm 
David Pew — old David Pew — him as was Bcnbow's 
own particular cox'n. You wouldn't turn away old 
Pew from the sign of his late commander's 'ed ? Ah, 
my British female, you'd have used me different if 
you'd seen me in the fight ! [There laid old Benbow, 
both his legs shot off, in a basket, and the blessed 
spy-glass at his eye to that same hour : a picter, 
ma'am, of naval daring : when a round shot come, 
and took and knocked a bucketful of shivers right 
into my poor daylights. ' Damme,' says the Admiral, 
*is that old Pew, 7ny old Pew ? ' he says. — ' It's old 
Pew, sir,' says the first lootenant, ' worse luck,' he 
202 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

says. — 'Then damme,' says Admiral Benbow, ' if II 
that's how they serve a lion-'arted seaman, damme C(> j 
if I care to live,' he says ; and, ma'am, he laid down 
his spy-glass.] 

Mrs. Drake. Blind man, I don't fancy you, and 
that's the truth; and I'll thank you to take yourself off. 

Pew. Thirty years have 1 fought for country and 
king, and now in my blind old age I'm to be sent 
packing from a measly public 'ouse ? Mark ye, 
ma'am, if I go, you take the consequences. Is this a 
inn? Or haint it? If it is a inn, then by act of 
parleyment, I'm free to sling my 'ammick. Don't 
you forget: this is a act of parleyment job, this is. 
You look out. 

Mrs. Drake. Why, what's to do with the man 
and his acts of parliament ? I don't want to fly in the 
face of an act of parliament, not I. If what you say 
is true 

Pew. True ? If there's anything truer than a act 
of parleyment — Ah ! you ask the beak. True ? I've 
that in my 'art as makes me wish it wasn't. 

Mrs. Drake. I don't like to risk it. I don't like 
your looks, and you're more sea-lawyer than seaman 
to my mind. But I'll tell you what : if you can pay, 
you can stay. So there. 

Pew. No chink, no drink ? That's your motto, is 
it ? Well, that's sense. Now, look here, ma'am, I 
ain't beautiful like you ; but I'm good, and I'll give 
you warrant for it. Get me a noggin of rum, and 

20^ 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

II suthiii' to scoff, and a penny pipe, and a half-a-foot 
g^ J of baccy ; and there's a guinea for the reckoning. 
There's plenty more in the locker ; so bear a hand, 
and be smart. I don't like waiting ; it ain't my way. 
{Exit Mrs. Drake, R. Pew sits at the table, R. 
The settle conceals him from all the itpper part of the 
stage,) 

Mrs. Drake [re-entering). Here's the rum, sailor. 

Pew [drinks). Ah, rum ! That's my sheet-anchor: 
rum and the blessed Gospel. Don't you forget that, 
ma'am : rum and the Gospel is old Pew's sheet- 
anchor. You can take for another while you're about 
it ; and, I say, short reckonings make long friends, 
hey ? Where's my change ? 

Mrs. Drake. I'm counting it now. There, there 
it is, and thank you for your custom. [She goes 
out, R.) 

Pew [calling after her). Don't thank me, ma'am ; 
thank the act of parleyment ! Rum, fourpence ; two 
penny pieces and a Willi'm-and-Mary tizzy makes a 
shilling ; and a spade half-guinea is eleven and six 
{re-enter Mrs. Drake with snpper, pipe, etc.); and a 
blessed majesty George the First crown-piece makes 
sixteen and six ; and two shilling bits is eighteen and 
six ; and a new half-crown makes — no it don't ! O, 
no ! Old Pew's too smart a hand to be bammed with 
a soft half-tusheroon. 

Mrs. Drake [changing piece). I'm sure I didn't 
know it, sailor. 
204 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Pew [trying new coin between his teeth). In course II 
you didn't, my dear ; but I did, and I thought I'd g^^ j 
mention it. Is that my supper, hey ? Do my nose 
deceive me ? [Stuffing and feeling.) Cold duck ? sage 
and onions ? a round of double Gloster ? and that 
noggin o' rum ? Why, 1 declare if I'd stayed and 
took pot-luck with my old commander, Cap'n John 
Gaunt, he couldn't have beat this little spread, as I've 
got by act of parleyment. 

Mrs. Drake [at knitting). Do you know the 
captain, sailor ? 

Pew. Know him? I was that man's bo'sun, ma'am. 
In the Guinea trade, we was known as ' Pew's Cap'n,' 
and ' Gaunt's Bo'sun,' one for other like. We was 
like two brothers, ma'am. And a excellent cold duck, 
to be sure ; and the rum lovely. 

Mrs. Drake. If you know John Gaunt, youknow 
his daughter Arethusa. 

Pew. What? Arethusa? Know her, says you? 
know her? Why, Lord love you, I was her god- 
father. [' Pew,' says Jack Gaunt to me, ' Pew,' he 
says, ' you're a man,' he says ; ' I like a man to be a 
man,' says he, ' and damme,' he says, ' I like you ; 
and sink me,' says he, ' if you don't promise and vow 
in the name of that new-born babe,' he says, ' why 
damme, Pew,' says he, ' you're not the man I take 
you for.'] Yes, ma'am, I named that female ; with 
my own 'ands I did ; Arethusa, I named her ; that 
was the name I give her ; so now youknow if I speak 

205 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

II true. And if you'll be as good as get me another 
Cp J noggin of rum, why, we'll drink her 'elth with three 
times three. {Exit Mrs. Drake : Pew eating. 
Mrs. Drake re-entering with rum.) 

[Mrs. Drake. If what you say be true, sailor (and 
I don't say it isn't, mind !), it's strange that Arethusa 
and that godly man her father has never so much as 
spoke your name. 

Pew. Why, that's so ! And why, says you ? Why, 
when I dropped in and paid my respecks this morn- 
ing, do you think she knew me ? No more'n a babe 
unborn! Why, ma'am, when I promised and vowed 
for her, I was the picter of aman-o'-war's man, I was : 
eye like a eagle ; walked the deck in a hornpipe, foot 
up and foot down; v'ice as mellow as rum ; 'and upon 
'art, and all the females took dead aback at the first 
sight. Lord bless 'em ! Know me ? Not likely. 
And as for me, when I found her such a lovely 
woman — by the feel of her 'and and arm '.—you might 
have knocked me down with a feather. But here's 
where it is, you see : when you've been knocking 
about on blue water for a matter of two and forty 
year, shipwrecked here, and blown up there, and 
everywhere out of luck, and given over for dead by all 
your messmates and relations, why what it amounts 
to is this : nobody knows you, and you hardly knows 
yourself, and there you are ; and I'll trouble you for 
another noggin of rum. 

Mrs. Drake. I think you've had enough. 
206 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Pew. I don't ; so bear a hand. {Exit Mrs. H 

Drake ; Pew empties the glass.) Rum, ah, rum, C^ j 
you're a lovely creature ; they haven't never done you 
justice. {Proceeds to Jill and light pipe j re-enter 
Mrs. Drake with rum.)~\ And now, ma'am, since 
you're so genteel and amicable-like, what about my 
old commander ? Is he, in a manner of speaking, on 
half pay ? or is he living on his fortune, like a gentle- 
man slaver ought ? 

Mrs. Drake. Well, sailor, people talk, you know. 

Pew. I know, ma'am ; I'd have been rolling in my 
coach, if they'd have held their tongues. 

Mrs. Drake. And they do say that Captain Gaunt, 
for so pious a man, is little better than a miser. 

Pew. Don't say it, ma'am ; not to old Pew. Ah, 
how often have I up and strove with him ! ' Cap'n, 
live it down,' says 1. 'Ah, Pew,' says he, 'you're 
a better man than I am,' he says ; ' but damme,' 
he says, 'money,' he says, ' is like rum to me.' {In- 
simiating.) And what about a old sea-chest, hey ? 
a old sea-chest, strapped with brass bands ? 

Mrs. Drake. Why, that'll be the chest in his 
parlour, where he has it bolted to the wall, as I've 
seen with my own eyes ; and so might you, if you had 
eyes to see with. 

Pew. No, ma'am, that ain't good enough ; you 
don't bam old Pew. You never was in that parlour 
in your life. 

Mrs. Drake. I never was ? Well, I declare ! 

207 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

II Pew. Well then, if you was, where's the chest? 

Cp J Beside the chimbley, hey ? [Wmking.) Beside the 
table with the 'oly Bible ? 

Mrs. Drake. No, sailor, you don't get any infor- 
mation out of me. 

Pew. What, ma'am ? Not to old Pew ? Why, my 
god-child showed it me herself, and I told her where 
she'd find my name — P, E, W, Pew — cut out on the 
starn of it ; and sure enough she did. Why, ma'am, 
it was his old money-box when he was in the Guinea 
trade ; and they do say he keeps the rhino in it still. 

Mrs. Drake. No, sailor, nothing out of me ! And 
if you want to know, you can ask the Admiral him- 
self! [S/te crosses, L.) 

Pew. Hey ? Old girl fly? Then I reckon I must 
have a mate, if it was the parish bull. 

SCENE II 

To these, KiT, a little drtuik 

Sc. 2 Kit {looking in over half- door). Mrs. Drake! 

Mother ! Where are you ? Come and welcome the 
prodigal ! 

Mrs. Drake {coming forward to meet him as he 
enters ; Pew remains concealed by the settle, smoking, 
drinking, and listening). Lord bless us and save us, 
if it ain't my boy ! Give us a kiss. 

Kit. That I will, and twenty if you like, old girl. 
{Kisses her.) 
208 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Mrs. Drake. O Kit, Kit, you've been at those 1 1 
other houses, where the stuff they give you, my dear, c p ^ 
it is poison for a dog. 

[Kit. Round with friends, mother : only round 
witli friends. 

Mrs. Drake. Well, anyway, you'll take a glass 
just to settle it, from me. {She brings the bottle, a?id 
fills for him.) There, that's pure ; that'll do you no 
harm.] But O, Kit, Kit, I thought you were done 
with all this Jack-a-shoring. 

Kit. What cheer, mother ? I'm only a sheet in 
the wind ; and who's the worse for it but nie ? 

Mrs. Drake. Ah, and that dear young lady; and 
her waiting and keeping single these two years for 
the love of you ! 

Kit. She, mother ? she's heart of oak, she's true as 
steel, and good as gold ; and she has my ring on her 
finger, too. But where's the use ? The Admiral 
won't look at me. 

Mrs. Drake. Why not? You're as good a man 
as him any day. 

Kit. Am I ? He says I'm a devil, and swears that 
none of his flesh and blood — that's what he said, 
mother ! — should lie at my mercy. That's what cuts 
me. If it wasn't for the good stuff I've been taking 
aboard, and the jolly companions I've been seeing it 
' out with, I'd just go and make a hole in the water, 
and be done with it, I would, by George ! 

Mrs. Drake. That's like you men. Ah, we know 

209 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

II you, we that keeps a public-house — we know you, 

Sc 2 good and bad : you go off on a frolic and forget ; and 

you never think of the women that sit crying at home. 

Kit. Crying? Arethusa cry ? Why, dame, she's 
the bravest-hearted girl in all broad England ! Here, 
fill the glass ! I'll win her yet. I drink to her ; 
here's to her bright eyes, and here's to the blessed 
feet she walks upon ! 

Pew [looking round the corner of the settle). Spoke 
like a gallant seaman, every inch. Shipmate, I'm a 
man as has suffered, and I'd like to shake your fist, 
and drink a can of flip with you. 

Kit {coming down). Hullo, my hearty ! who the 
devil are you ? Who's this, mother ? 

Mrs. Drake. Nay, I know nothing about him. 
(She goes out, R.) 

Pew. Cap'n, I'm a brother seaman, and my name 
is Pew, old David Pew, as you may have heard of in 
your time, he having sailed along of 'Awke and 
glorious Benbovv, and a right 'and man to both. 

Kit. Benbow ? Steady, mate ! D'ye mean to say 
you went to sea before you were born ? 

Pew. See now ! The sign of this here inn was 
running in my 'ed, I reckon. Benbow, says you ? no, 
not likely ! Anson, I mean ; Anson and Sir Edward 
'Awke : that's the pair : I was their right 'and man. 

Kit. Well, mate, you may be all that, and more ; 
but you're a rum un to look at, anyhow. 

Pew. Right you are, and so I am. But what is 

2IO 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

looks ? It's the 'art that does it : the 'art is the sea- II 
man's star ; and here's old David Pew's, a matter of g^ 2 
fifty years at sea, but tough and sound as the British 
Constitootion. 

Kit. You're right there, Pew. Shake hands upon 
it. And you're a man they're down upon, just like 
myself, I see. We're a pair of plain, good-hearted, 
jolly tars ; and all these 'longshore fellows cock a lip 
at us, by George. What cheer, mate ? 

Arethusa {without). Mrs. Drake ! Mrs. Drake ! 

Pew. What, a female ? hey ? a female ? Board her, 
board her, mate ! I'm dark. {He retires again behind, 
to table, R., behind settle .) 

Arethusa {without). Mrs. Drake ! 

Mrs. Drake [re-e7itering and running to door). 
Here I am, my dear ; come in. 

SCENE III 
To these, Arethusa 

Arethusa. Ah, Kit, I've found you. I thought Sc. 3 
you would lodge with Mrs. Drake. 

Kit. What? are you looking for your consort? 
Whistle, I'm your dog ; I'll come to you. I've been 
toasting you fathom deep, my beauty ; and with every 
glass I love you dearer. 

Arethusa. Now Kit, if you want to please my 
father, this is not the way. Perhaps he thinks too 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

1 1 much of the guineas : well, gather them — if you think 
Cp ^ me worth the price. Go you to your sloop, clinker 
built, eighty tons burthen — you see I remember. 
Skipper Kit ! I don't deny I like a man of spirit ; 
but if you care to please Captain Gaunt, keep out of 
taverns ; and if you could carry yourself a bit more — 
more elderly ! 

[Kit. Can I ? Would I ? Ah, just couldn't and 
just won't I, then ! 

Mrs. Drake. I hope, madam, you don't refer to 
my house ; a publican I may be, but tavern is a word 
that I don't hold with ; and here there's no bad drink, 
and no loose company ; and as for myblessedest Kit, 
I declare 1 love him like my own. 

Arethusa. Why, who could help it, Mrs. Drake ?] 

Kit. Arethusa, you're an angel. Do I want to 
please Captain Gaunt ? Why, that's as much as ask 
whether I love you. [I don't deny that his words cut 
me ; for they did. But as for wanting to please him, 
if he was deep as the blue Atlantic, I would beat 
it out. And elderly, too ? Aha, you witch, you're 
wise ! Elderly ? You've set the course ; you leave 
me alone to steer it. Matrimony's my port, and love 
is my cargo.] That's a likely question, ain't it, Mrs. 
Drake ? Do I want to please him ! Elderly, says 
you ? Why, see here : Fill up my glass, and I'll 
drink to Arethusa on my knees. 

Arethusa. Why, you stupid boy, do you think 
that would please him ? 

212 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Kit. On my knees I'll drink it ! {As he kneels mid \ \ 



Sc. 3 



drains the glass, Gaunt enters, and he scrambles to 
his feet.) 

SCENE IV 

To these, Gaunt 

Gaunt. Arethusa, this is no place for you. g^ < 

Arethusa. No, father. 

Gaunt. I wish you had been spared this sight; 
but look at him, child, since you are herej look at 
God's image, so debased. And you, young man {to 
Kit), you have proved that I was right. Are you the 
husband for this innocent maid ? 

Kit. Captain Gaunt, I have a word to say to you. 
Terror is your last word ; you're bitter hard upon 
poor sinners, bitter hard and black — you that were a 
sinner yourself. These are not the true colours : 
don't deceive yourself ; you're out of your course. 

[Gaunt. Heaven forbid that I should be hard, 
Christopher. It is not I ; it's God's law that is of 
iron. Think ! if the blow were to fall now, some cord 
to snap within you, some enemy to plunge a knife 
into your heart ; this room, with its poor taper light, 
to vanish ; this world to disappear like a drowning 
man into the great ocean ; and you, your brain still 
whirling, to be snatched into the presence of the 
eternal Judge : Christopher French, what answer 
would you make ? For these gifts wasted, for this 

213 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

II rich mercy scorned, for these high-handed bravings 
Sc d. ^^ your better angel, — what have you to say ? 

Kit. Well, sir, 1 want my word with you, and by 
your leave I'll have it out. 

Arethusa. Kit, for pity's sake ! 

Kit. Arethusa, I don't speak to you, my dear : 
you've got my ring, and I know what that means. 
The man 1 speak to is Captain Gaunt. I came to- 
day as happy a man as ever stepped, and with as fair 
a look-out. What did you care ? w^hat was your 
reply ? None of your flesh and blood, you said, should 
lie at the mercy of a wretch like me ! Am I not flesh 
and blood that you should trample on me like that ? 
Is that charity, to stamp the hope out of a poor soul ?] 

Gaunt. You speak wildly ; or the devil of drink 
that is in you speaks instead. 

Kit. You think me drunk? well, so I am, and 
whose fault is it but yours ? It was I that drank ; but 
you take your share of it. Captain Gaunt : you it was 
that filled the can. 

Gaunt. Christopher French, I spoke but for your 
good, your good and hers. ' Woe unto him ' — these 
are the dreadful words — ' by whom offences shall 

come : it were better ' Christopher, I can but pray 

for both of us. 

Kit. Prayers ? Now I tell you freely, Captain 

Gaunt, I don't value your prayers. Deeds are what 

I ask ; kind deeds and words — that's the true-blue 

piety : to hope the best and do the best, and speak 

214 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

the kindest. As for you, you insult me to my face ; II 
and then you'll pray for me? What's that ? Insult g^ a 
behind my back is what I call it ! No, sir ; you're 
out of the course ; you're no good man to my view, 
be you who you may. 

Mrs. Drake. O Christopher ! To Captain Gaunt ? 

Arethusa. Father, father, come away ! 

Kit. Ah, you see ? She suffers too ; we all suffer. 
You spoke just now of a devil ; well, I'll tell you the 
devil you have : the devil of judging others. And as 
for me, I'll get as drunk as Bacchus. 

Gaunt. Come ! ' 

SCENE V 
Pew, Mrs. Drake, Kit 

Y'^'^ {coming otit and waving his pipe). Qomnx-xwAcx, Cp r 
shake ! Hooray for old England ! If there's any- 
thing in the world that goes to old Pew's 'art, it's 
argyment. Commander, you handled him like a 
babby, kept the weather gauge, and hulled him every 
shot. Commander, give it a name, and let that name 
be rum ! 

Kit. Ay, rum's the sailor's fancy. Mrs. Drake, a 
bottle and clean glasses. 

Mrs. Drake. Kit French, I wouldn't. Think 
better of it, there's a dear ! And that sweet girl just 
gone ! 

Pew. Ma'am, I'm not a 'ard man ; I'm not the 

215 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

II man to up and force a act of parleyment upon a help- 
er r less female. But you see here : Pew's friends is 
sacred. Here's my friend here, a perfeck seaman, 
and a man with a 'ed upon his shoulders, and a man 
that, damme, I admire. He give you a order, ma'am : 
— march ! 

Mrs. Drake. Kit, don't you listen to that blind 
man ; he's the devil wrote upon his face. 

Pew. Don't you insinuate against my friend. He 
ain't a child, I hope ? Jie knows his business ? Don't 
you get trying to go a lowering of my friend in his 
own esteem. 

Mrs. Drake. Well, I'll bring it. Kit ; but it's 
against the grain. {Exit.) 

Kit. I say, old boy, come to think of it, why should 
we ? It's been glasses round with me all day. I've 
got my cargo. 

Pew. You ? and you just argy'd the 'ed off of 
Admiral Guinea ? O stash that ! /stand treat, if it 
comes to that ! 

Kit. What ! Do I meet with a blind seaman and 
not stand him ? That's not the man I am ! 

Mrs. Drake [re-entering icit/i bottle and glasses). 
There ! 

Pew. Easy does it, ma'am. 

Kit. Mrs. Drake, you had better trot. 

Mrs, Drake. Yes, I'll trot ; and I trot with a sick 
heart, Kit French, to leave you drinking your wits 
away with that low blind man. For a low man you 
2x6 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

are — a low blind man — and your clothes they would 1 1 
disgrace a scarecrow. I'll go to my bed, Kit ; and O, Cp - 
dear boy, go soon to yours — the old room, you know ; 
it's ready for you — and go soon and sleep it off; for 
you know, dear, they, one and all, regret it in the 
morning ; thirty years I've kept this house, and one 
and all they did regret it, dear. 

Pew. Come now, you walk ! 

Mrs. Drake. O, it's not for your bidding. You a 
seaman ? The ship for you to sail in is the hangman's 
cart. — Good-night, Kit dear, and better company ! 
« 

SCENE VI 

Pew, Kit. They sit at the other table, L. 

Pew. Commander, here's her 'ealth ! 

Kit. Ay, that's the line : //!^r health ! But that old Sc. 6 
woman there is a good old woman. Pew. 

Pew. So she is, Commander. But there's no 
woman understands a seaman ; now you and me, 
being both bred to it, we splice by natur'. As for 
A. G., if argyment can win her, why, she's yours. If 
I'd a-had your 'ed for argyment, damme, I'd a-been 
a Admiral, I would ! And if argyment won't win her, 
well, see here, you put your trust in David Pew. 

Kit. David Pew, I don't know who you are, David 
Pew ; I never heard of you ; I don't seem able to 
clearly see you. Mrs. Drake, she's a smart old 

217 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

II woman, Pew, and she says you've the devil in your 

Sc. 6 f^^^- 

Pkw. Ah, and why, says you ? Because I up and 
put her in her place, when she forgot herself to you. 
Commander. 

Kit. Well, Pew, that's so ; you stood by me like a 
man. Shake hands. Pew ; and we'll make anight of 
it, or we'll know why, old boy ! 

Pew. That's my way. That's Pew's way, that is. 
That's Pew's way all over. Commander, excuse the 
liberty ; but when I was your age, making allowance 
for a lowlier station and less 'ed for argyment, I was 
as like you as two peas. I know it by the v'ice 
{sings)— 

' We hadn't been three days at sea before we saw a sail. 
So we clapped on every stitch would stand, although it blew a gale, 
And we walked along full fourteen knots, for the barkie she did know, 
As well as ever a soul on board, 'twas time for us to go.' 

Chorus, Cap'n ! 

Pew and KIT {itt chorus) — 

' Time for us to go, 
Time for us to go. 
As well as ever a soul on board, 
'Twas time for us to go.' 

Pew [sings) — 

' We carried away the royal yard, and the stunsail boom was gone ; 
Says the skipper, "They may go or stand, I'm damned if I don't 

crack on ; 
So the weather braces we'll round In, and the trysail set also. 
And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away, for it's time for us to go." ' 

Give it mouth. Commander ! 
218 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Pew and Kit (in chorus) — II 

* Time for us to go, «5C. D 

Time for us to go, 
And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away. 
For it's time for us to go.' 

Pew. I ain't sung like that since I sang to Admiral 
'Awke, the night before I lost my eyes, I ain't. ' Sink 
me ! ' says he, says Admiral 'Awke, my old com- 
mander (touching his hat), ' sink me ! ' he says, ' if 
that ain't 'art-of-oak,' he says : ' 'art-of-oak,' says he, 
' and a pipe like a bloody blackbird ! ' Commander, 
here's my respecks, and the devil fly away with 
Admiral Guinea ! 

Kit. I say, Pew, how's this ? How do you know 
about Admiral Guinea ? I say, Pew, I begin to think 
you know too much. 

Pew. I ax your pardon ; but as a man with a 'ed 
for argyment — and that's your best p'int o' sailing. 
Commander ; intelleck is your best p'int^as a man 
with a 'ed for argyment, how do I make it out ? 

Kit. Aha, you're a sly dog, ^'ou're a deep dog, 
Pew ; but you can't get the weather of Kit French. 
How do I make it out ? I'll tell you. I make it out 
like this : Your name's Pew, ain't it ? Very well. 
And you know Admiral Guinea, and that's his 
name, eh ? Very well. Then you're Pew ; and the 
Admiral's the Admiral ; and you know the Admiral ; 
and by George, that's all. Hey ? Drink about, 
boys, drink about ! 

219 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

II Pew. Lord love you, if I'd a-had a 'ed like yours ! 

Sc 6 Why, the Admiral was my first cap'n. I was that 

man's bo'sun, I was, aboard the AretJnisa ; and we 

was like two brothers. Did you never hear of 

Guinea-land and the black ivory business ? [sings) — 

'A quick run to the South we had, and when we made the Bight 
We kept the offing all day long and crossed the bar at night. 
Six hundred niggers in the hold and seventy we did stow, 
And when we'd clapped the hatches on, 'twas time for us to go.' 

Lay forward, lads ! 

Kit and Pew {in chorus) — 

' Time for us to go,' etc. 

Kit. I say. Pew, I like you ; you're a damned 
ugly dog ; but I like you. But look ye here. Pew : 
fair does it, you know, or we part company this 

minute. If you and the Ad the Admirable Avere 

like brothers on the Guinea coast, why aren't you 
like brothers here ? 

Pew. Ah, /see you coming. What a 'ed ! what a 

'ed ! Since Pew is a friend of the family, says you, 

i why didn't he sair in and bear a hand, says you, 

when you was knocking the Admiral's ship about his 

ears in argyment ? 

Kit. Well, Pew, now you put a name to it, why not ? 

Pew. Ah, why not ? There I recko'nise you. 
[Well, see here : argyment's my weakness, in a 
manner of speaking ; I wouldn't a-borne down and 
spiled sport, not for gold untold, no, not for rum, I 
wouldn't ! And besides. Commander, I put it to 
220 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

you, as between man and man, would it have been II 
seaman-like to let on and show myself to a old g^ ^ 
shipmate, when he was yard-arm to yard-arm with 
a craft not half his metal, and getting blown out 
of water every broadside ? Would it have been 
'ansome ? I put it to you, as between man and man. 

Kit. Pew, I may have gifts ; but I never thought 
of that. Why, no : not seaman-like. Pew, you've a 
heart ; that's what I like you for. 

Pew. Ah, that I have : you'll see. I wanted — 
now you follow me— I wanted to keep square with 
Admiral Guinea.] Why ? says you. Well, put it 
that I know a fine young fellow when I sees him ; 
and put it that I wish him well ; and put it, for the 
sake of argyment, that the father of that lovely 
female's in my power. Aha ? Pew's Power ! Why, 
in my 'ands he's like this pocket 'andke'cher. Now, 
brave boy, do you see ? 

Kit. No, Pew, my head's gone ; I don't see. 

Pew. Why, cheer up. Commander ! You want to 
marry this lovely female ? 

Kit. Ay, that I do ; but I'm not fit for her. Pew ; 
Pm a drunken dog, and I'm not fit for her. 

Pew. Now, Cap'n, you'll allow a old seaman to 
be judge : one as sailed with 'Awke and blessed 

Benb with 'Awkc and noble Anson. You've 

been open and above-board with me, and PU do the 
same by you : it being the case that you're hard hit 
about a lovely woman, which many a time and oft it 

221 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

1 1 has happened to old Pew ; and him with a feeUng 

Sc 6 '^^'- ^^^'^^ bleeds for you, Commander ; why look 

here : I'm that girl's godfather ; promised and vowed 

for her, I did ; and I like you ; and you're the man 

for her ; and, by the living Jacob, you shall splice ! 

Kit. David Pew, do you mean what you say ? 

Pew. Do I mean what I say ? Does David Pew ? 
Ask Admiral 'Awke ! Ask old Admiral Byng in his 
coffin, where I laid him with these 'ands ! Pew does, 
is what those naval commanders would reply. Mean 
it ? I reckon so. 

Kit. Then, shake hands. You're an honest man, 
Pew — old Pew ! — and I'll make your fortune. But 
there's something else, if I could keep the run of it. 
O, ah ! But can you ? That's the point. Can you ; 
don't you see ? 

Pew. Can I ? You leave that to me ; I'll bring 
you to your moorings ; I'm the man that can, and 
I'm him that will. But only, look here, let's under- 
stand each other. You're a bold blade, ain't you ? 
You won't stick at a trifle for a lovely female ? 
You'll back me up ? You're a man, ain't you ? a 
man, and you'll see me through and through it, hey ? 
Come ; is that so ? Are you fair and square and 
stick at nothing ? 

Kit. Me, Pew ? I'll go through fire and water. 

Pew. I'll risk it. — Well, then, see here, my son : 
another swallow and we jog. 

Kit. No, not to-night, Pew, not to-night ! 

222 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Pew. Commander, in a manner of speaking, 1 1 
wherefore ? Cp g 

Kit. Wherefore, Pew ? 'Cause why, Pew ? 'Cause 
I'm drunk, and be damned to you ! 

Pew. Commander, I ax your pardon ; but, saving 
your presence, that's a lie. What ? drunk ? a man 
with a 'ed for argyment like that ? Just you get up, 
and steady yourself on your two pins, and you'll be 
as right as ninepence. 

[Kit. Pew, before we budge, let me shake your 
flipper again. You're heart of oak, Pew, sure 
enough ; and if you can bring the Adam— Admirable 
about, why, damme, I'll make your fortune ! How 
you're going to do it, I don't know ; but I'll stand 
by ; and I know you'll do it if anybody can. But 
I'm drunk, Pew ; you can't deny that : I'm as drunk 
as a Plymouth fiddler. Pew ; and how you're going 
to do it is a mystery to me. 

Pew. Ah, you leave that to me. All I want is 
what I've got : your promise to stand by and bear a 
hand {producing a dark lantern).^ Now, here, you 
see, is my little glim ; it ain't for me, because I'm 
blind, worse luck ! and the day and night is the 
blessed same to David Pew. But you watch. You 
put the candle near me. Here's what there ain't 
mony blind men could do, take the pick o' them ! 
[lighting a screw of paper, and with that, the 
lantern) Hey ? That's it. Hey ? Go and pity the 
poor blind ! 

223 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

II Kit (while Pew blows out the candles). But I 

Cp /; say, Pew, what do you want with it ? 

Pew. To see by, my son. {He shuts the lantern 
and puts it in his pocket. Stage quite dark. Moon- 
light at window.) AH ship-shape ? No sparks 
about? No? Come, then, lean on me and heave 
ahead for the lovely female. {Singing sotto voce) — 

' Time for us to go, 
Time for us to go, 
And when we'd clapped the hatches on, 
'Twas time for us to go.' 



Drop 



224 



ACT III 

The Stage represents the Admirars house, as in Act I. Gaunt, 

seated, is reading aloud ; Arethusa sits at 

his/eet. Ca7idles 



SCENE I 

Arethusa, Gaunt 

[Gaunt {reading). ' And Ruth said, Intreat me g^ j- 
not to leave thee, or to return from following after 
thee : for whither thou goest, I will go ; and where 
thou lodgest, I will lodge : thy people shall be my 
people, and thy God my God : Where thou diest, 
will I die, and there will I be buried : the Lord do so 
to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee 
and me.' {He closes the book.) Amen. 

Arethusa. Amen. Father, there spoke my heart. J 
Gaunt. Arethusa, the Lord in his mercy has seen 
right to vex us with trials of many kinds. It is a 
little matter to endure the pangs of the flesh : the 
smart of wounds, the passion of hunger and thirst, 
the heaviness of disease ; and in this world I have 
learned to take thought for nothing save the quiet of 

225 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

III your soul. It is through our affections that we are 
Cp T smitten with the true pain, even the pain that kills. 

Arethusa. And yet this pain is our natural lot. 
Father, I fear to boast, but I know that I can bear it. 
Let my life, then, flow like common lives, each pain 
rewarded with some pleasure, each pleasure linked 
with some pain : nothing pure, whether for good or 
evil : and my husband, like myself and all the rest of 
us, only a poor, kind-hearted sinner, striving for the 
better part. What more could any woman ask ? 

Gaunt. Child, child, your words are like a sword. 
What would she ask ? Look upon me whom, in the 
earthly sense, you are commanded to respect. Look 
upon me : do I bear a mark ? is there any outward 
sign to bid a woman avoid and flee from me ? 

Arethusa. I see nothing but the face I love. 

Gaunt. There is none : nor yet on the young man 
Christopher, whose words still haunt and upbraid me. 
Yes, I am hard ; I was born hard, born a tyrant, born 
to be what I was, a slaver captain. But to-night, and 
to save you, I will pluck my heart out of my bosom. 
You shall know what makes me what I am ; you shall 
hear, out of my own life, why I dread and deprecate 
this marriage. Child, do you remember your mother ? 

Arethusa, Remember her? Ah, if she had been 
here to-day ! 

Gaunt. It is thirteen years since she departed, and 
took with her the whole sunshine of my life. Do ) ou 
remember the manner of her departure ? You were a 
226 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

child, and cannot ; but I can and do. Remember ? HI 
shall I ever forget ? Here or hereafter, ever forget ! Sc I 
Ten years she was my wife, and ten years she lay 
a-dying. Arethusa, she was a saint on earth ; and it 
was I that killed her. 

Arethusa. Killed her ? my mother ? You ? 

Gaunt. Not with my hand ; for 1 loved her. I 
would not have hurt one hair upon her head. But 
she got her death by me, as sure as by a blow. 

Arethusa. I understand — I can see : you brood 
on trifles, misunderstandings, unkindnesses, you think 
them ; though my mother never knew df them, or 
never gave them a second thought. It is natural, 
when death has come between. 

Gaunt. I married her from Falmouth. She was 
comely as the roe ; I see her still — her dove's eyes and 
her smile ! I was older than she ; and I had a name 
for hardness, a hard and wicked man ; but she loved 
me — my Hester ! —and she took me as I was. O how 
I repaid her trust ! Well, our child was born to us ; 
and we named her after the brig I had built and sailed, 
the old craft whose likeness — older than you, girl — 
stands there above our heads. And so far, that was 
happiness. But she yearned for my salvation ; and 
it was there I thwarted her. My sins were a burden 
upon her spirit, a shame to her in this world, her 
terror in the world to come. She talked much and 
often of my leaving the devil's trade I sailed in. She 
had a tender and a Christian heart, and she would 

227 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

III weep and pray for the poor heathen creatures that I 
Cp J bought and sold and shipped into misery, till my con- 
science grew hot within me. I've put on my hat, and 
gone out and made oath that my next cargo should 
be my last ; but it never was, that oath was never 
kept. So I sailed again and again for the Guinea 
coast, until the trip came that was to be my last in- 
deed. Well, it fell out that we had good luck trading, 
and I stowed the brig with these poor heathen as 
full as she would hold. We had a fair run westward 
till we were past the line ; but one night the wind 
rose and there came a hurricane, and for seven days 
we were tossed on the deep seas, in the hardest straits, 
and every hand on deck. For several days they were 
battened down : all that time we heard their cries and 
lamentations, but worst at the beginning ; and when 
at last, and near dead myself, I crept below — O ! some 
they were starved, some smothered, some dead of 
broken limbs ; and the hold was like a lazar-house in 
the time of the anger of the Lord ! 

Arethusa. O ! 

Gaunt. It was two hundred and five that we threw 
overboard : two hundred and five lost souls that I had 
hurried to their doom. I had many die with me be- 
fore ; but not like that — not such a massacre as that ; 
and I stood dumb before the sight. For I saw I was 
their murderer — body and soul their murderer ; and, 
Arethusa, my Hester knew it. That was her death- 
stroke : it felled her. She had long been dying slowly; 
228 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

but from the hour she heard that story, the garment HI 
of the flesh began to waste and perish, the fountains c p j 
of her hfe dried up ; she faded before my face ; 
and in two months from my landing— O Hester, 
Hester, would God I had died for thee ! 

Arethusa. Mother ! O poor soul ! O poor father ! 
O father, it was hard on you. 

Gaunt. The night she died, she lay there, in her 
bed. She took my hand. ' I am going,' she said, 
' to heaven. For Christ's sake,' she said, ' come after 
me, and bring my little maid. I'll be waiting and 
wearying till you come ; ' and she kissed my hand, 
the hand that killed her. At that I broke out 
calling on her to stop, for it was more than I could 
bear. But no, she said she must still tell me of my 
sins, and how the thought of them had bowed down 
her life. ' And O ! ' she said, ' if I couldn't prevail on 
you alive, let my death.' . . . Well, then, she died. 
What have I done since then ? I've laid my course 
for Hester. Sin, temptation, pleasure, all this poor 
shadow of a world, I saw them not : I saw my Hester 
waiting, waiting and wearying. I have made my 
election sure ; my sins I have cast them out. Hester, 
Hester, I will come to you, poor waiting one ; and 
I'll bring your little maid : ay, dearest soul, I'll bring 
your little maid safe with me ! 

Arethusa. O teach me how ? Show me the way ! 
only show me. — O mother, mother! — If it were paved 
with fire, show me the way, and I will walk it bare-foot! 

229 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

III Gaunt. They call me a miser. They say that in 

Cp T this sea-chest of mine I hoard my gold {He passes 
R. to chest, takes out key, and unlocks it.) They 
think my treasure and my very soul are locked up 
here. They speak after the flesh, but they are right. 
See! 

Arethusa. Her watch ? the wedding ring ? O 
father, forgive me ! 

Gaunt. Ay, her watch that counted the hours when 
I was away ; they were few and sorrowful, my Hester's 
hours ; and this poor contrivance numbered them. 
The ring — with that 1 married her. This chain, it's 
of Guinea gold ; I brought it home for her, the year 
before we married, and she wore it to her wedding. 
It was a vanity : they are all vanities ; but they are 
the treasure of my soul. Below here, see, her wedding 
dress. Ay, the watch has stopped : dead, dead. 
And I know that my Hester died of me ; and day 
and night, asleep and awake, my soul abides in her 
remembrance. 

Arethusa. And you come in your sleep to look at 
them. O poor father! I understand — I understand 
you now. 

Gaunt. In my sleep ? Ay ? do I so ? My Hester ! 

Arethusa. And why, why did you not tell me ? 
I thought — I was like the rest ! — I feared you were a 
miser. O, you should have told me ; I should have 
been so proud— so proud and happy. I knew you 
loved her ; but not this, not this. 
230 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Gaunt. Why should I have spoken? It was all HI 
between my Hester and me. g^ I 

Arethusa. Father, may I speak ? May I tell you 
what my heart tells me ? You do not understand 
about my mother. You loved her— O, as few men 
can love. And she loved you : think how she loved 
you ! In this world, you know — you have told me — 
there is nothing perfect. All we men and women 
have our sins ; and they are a pain to those that love 
us, and the deeper the love, the crueller the pain. 
That is life ; and it is life we ask, not heaven ; and 
what matter for the pain, if only the love holds on? 
Her love held : then she was happy ! Her love was 
immortal ; and when she died, her one grief was to 
be parted from you, her one hope to welcome you 
again. 

Gaunt. And you, Arethusa : I was to bring her 
little maid. 

Arethusa. God bless her, yes, and me ! But, 
father, can you not see that she was blessed among 
women ? 

Gaunt. Child, child, you speak in ignorance ; you 
touch upon griefs you cannot fathom. 

Arethusa. No, dearest, no. She loved you, loved 
you and died of it. Why else do women live ? What 
would I ask but just to love my Kit and die for him, 
and look down from heaven, and see him keep my 
memory holy and live the nobler for my sake ? 

Gaunt. Ay, do you so love him ? 

231 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

HI Arethusa. Even as my mother loved my father. 

g^ J Gaunt. Ay? Then we will see. What right have 

I You are your mother's child : better, tenderer, 

wiser than I. Let us seek guidance in prayer. Good- 
/ night, my little maid. 

Arethusa. O father, I know you at last. 

SCENE II 

Gaunt and Arethusa go out, Z., carrying the 
candles. Stage dark. A distant clock chimes 
the quarters, and strikes one. Then, the tap- 
tapping of Pew's stick is heard without ; the 
key is put into the lock ; and enter Pew, C, he 
pockets key, and is followed by KiT, with dark 
lantern 

Sc. 2 Pew. Quiet, you lubber ! Can't you foot it soft, 

you that has daylights and a glim ? 

Kit. All right, old boy. How the devil did we get 
through the door ? Shall I knock him up ? 

Pew. Stow your gab {seizing his wrist). Under 
your breath ! 

Kit. Avast that ! You're a savage dog, aren't you ? 

Pew. Turn on that glim. 

Kit. It's as right as a trivet, Pew. What next ? 
By George, Pew, I'll make your fortune. 

Pew. Here, now, look round this room, and sharp. 
D'ye see a old sea-chest ? 
232 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Kit. See it, Pew ? why, d'ye think I'm blind ? HI 

Pew, Take me across, and let me feel of her. g^ 2 
Mum ; catch my hand. Ah, that's her {feeling the 
chest), that's the Golden Mary. Now, see here, my 
bo, if you've the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit, this 
girl is yours ; if you hain't, and think to sheer off, 
Pm blind, but Pm deadly. 

Kit. You'll keep a civil tongue in your head all 
the same. Pll take threats from nobody, blind or not. 
Lets knock up the Admiral and be done with it. 
What I want is to get rid of this dark laptern. It 
makes me feel like a housebreaker, by George. 

Pew {seated on chest). You follow this. I'm sick 
of drinking bilge, when I might be rolling in my 
coach, and I'm dog-sick of Jack Gaunt. Who's he 
to be wallowing in gold, when a better man is groping 
crusts in the gutter and spunging for rum ? Now, 
here in this blasted chest is the gold to make men of 
us for life : gold, ay, gobs of it ; and writin's too — 
things that if I had the proof of 'em I'd hold Jack 
Gaunt to the grindstone till his face was flat. I'd 
have done it single-handed ; but I'm blind, worse 
luck : I'm all in the damned dark here, poking with 
a stick — Lord, burn up with lime the eyes that saw it ! 
That's why I raked up you. Come, out with your 
iron, and prise the lid off. You shall touch your 
snack, and have the wench for nothing ; ay, and fling 
her in the street, when done. 

Kit. So you brought me here to steal, did you ? 

233 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

III Pew. Ay did I ; and you shall. I'm a biter : I 

C(^ 2 bring blood. 

Kit. Now, Pew, you came here on my promise, or 
I'd kill you like a rat. As it is, out of that door ? 
One, two, three {drawing his cutlass), and off! 

Pew (leaping at his throat, and with a great 
voice). Help! murder! thieves! 

SCENE III 

To these, Arethusa, Gaunt, with lights. Stage 
light. Pew has Kit down, and is throttling hi7n 

gc^ 2 Pew. I've got him, Cap'n. What, kill my old 

commander, and rob him of his blessed child ? Not 
with old Pew ! 

Gaunt. Get up, David : can't you see you're 
killing him ? Unhand, I say. 

Arethusa. In heaven's name, who is it ? 

Pew. It's a damned villain, my pretty ; and his 
name, to the best of my belief, is French. 

Arethusa. Kit ? Kit French ? Never ! 

Kit (rising). He's done for me. (Falls on chest.) 

[Pew. Don't you take on about him, ducky ; he 
ain't worth it. Cap'n Gaunt, I took him and I give 
him up. You was 'ard on me this morning, Cap'n : 
this is my way — Pew's way, this is — of paying of you 
out. 

Arethusa. Father, this is the blind man that 

234 



m 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

came while you were abroad. Sure you'll not listen HI 
to him. And you, Kit, you, what is this ? C^ 5 

Kit. Captain Gaunt, that blind devil has half- 
throttled me. He brought me here — I can't speak — 
he has almost killed me — and I'd been drinking too. 

Gaunt. And you, David Pew, what do you say ?] 

Pew. Cap'n, the rights of it is this. Me and that 
young man there was partaking in a friendly drop of 
rum at the Admiral Benbow inn ; and Pd just 
proposed his blessed Majesty, when the young man 
he ups and says to me : * Pew,' he says, ' I like you, 
Pew : you're a true seaman,' he says ; ' and I'm one 
as sticks at nothing ; and damme, Pew,' he says, 
' I'll make your fortune.' [Can he deny as them was 
his words ? Look at him, you as has eyes : no, he 
cannot. ' Come along of me,' he says, ' and damme, 
I'll make your fortune.'] Well, Cap'n, he lights a 
dark lantern (which you'll find it somewhere on the 
floor, I reckon), and out we goes, me foUerin' his 
lead, as I thought was 'art-of-oak and a true-blue 
mariner ; and the next I knows is, here we was in 
here, and him a-askin' me to 'old the glim, while he 
prised the lid off of your old sea-chest with his cutlass. 

Gaunt. The chest ? {He leaps, R., and cxainincs 
chest.) Ah! 

Pew. Leastways, 1 was to 'elphim, by his account 
of it, while he nailed the rhino, and then took and 
carried off that lovely maid of yours : for a lovely 
maid she is, and one as touched old Pew's 'art. 

235 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

III Cap'n, when I 'eard that, my blood biled. ' Young 
Cp ^ man,' I says, ' you don't know David Pew,' I says ; 
and with that I ups and does my dooty by him, 
cutlass and all, like a lion-'arted seaman, though 
blind. [And then in comes you, and I gives him up : 
as you know for a fack is true, and I'll subscribe at 
the Assizes. And that, if you was to cut me into 
junks, is the truth, the 'ole truth, and nothing but the 
truth, world without end, so help me, amen ; and if 
you'll 'and me over the 'oly Bible, me not having 
such a thing about me at the moment, why, I'll put 
a oath upon it like a man.] 

Arethusa. Father, have you heard ? 

[Gaunt. I know this man, Arethusa, and the truth 
is not in him. 

Arethusa. Well, and why do we wait? We 
know Kit, do we not ? 

Kit. Ay, Captain, you know the pair of us, and 
you can see his face and mine.] 

Gaunt. Christopher, the facts are all against you. 
I find you here in my house at midnight : you who 
at least had eyes to see, and must have known 
whither you were going. It was this man, not you, 
who called me up : and when I came in, it was he 
who was uppermost and who gave you up to justice. 
This unsheathed cutlass is yours ; there hangs the 
scabbard, empty ; and as for the dark lantern, of 
what use is light to the blind ? and who could have 
trimmed and lighted it but you ? 
236 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Pew. Ah, Cap'n, what a 'ed for argyment! HI 

Kit. And now, sir, now that you have spoken, I Cp ^ 
claim the liberty to speak on my side. 

Gaunt. Not so. I will first have done with this 
man. David Pew, it were too simple to believe your 
story as you tell it ; but I can find no testimony 
against you. From whatever reason, assuredly you 
have done me service. Here are five guineas to set 
you on your way. Begone at once ; and while it is 
yet time, think upon your repentance. 

Pew. Cap'n, here's my respecks. You've turned 
a pious man, Cap'n ; it does my 'art good'to 'ear you. 
But you ain't the only one. O no i I came about and 
paid off on the other tack before you, I reckon : you 
ask the Chaplain of the Fleet else, as called me on 
the quarter-deck before old Admiral 'Awke himself 
[toitching his hat), my old commander. [' David 
Pew,' he says, ' five-and-thirty year have I been in 
this trade, man and boy,' that chaplain says, ' and 
damme. Pew,' says he, ' if ever I seen the seaman 
that could rattle off his catechism within fifty mile of 
you. Here's five guineas out of my own pocket,' he 
says ; ' and what's more to the pint,' he says, ' I'll 
speak to my reverend brother-in-law, the Bishop of 
Dover,' he says ; ' and if ever you leave the sea, and 
wants a place as beadle, why damme,' says he, ' you go 
to him, for you're the man for him, and him for you.' 

Gaunt. David Pew, you never set your foot on a 
King's ship in all your life. There lies the road. 

237 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

III Pew. Ah, you was always a 'ard man, Cap'n, and 

Cp o a 'ard man to believe, like Didymus the 'Ebrew 

prophet. But it's time for me to go, and I'll be 

going. My service to you, Cap'n : and I kiss my 

'and to that lovely female. [Sin^i^ing) — 

' Time for us to go. 
Time lor us to %o. 
And when we'd clapped the hatches on, 
'Twas time for us to go.' 

SCENE IV 
Kit, Arethusa, Gaunt 

Sc. 4 Arethusa. Now, Kit ? 

Kit. Well, sir, and now ? 

Gaunt. I find you here in my house at this 
untimely and unseemly hour ; I find you there in 
company with one who, to my assured knowledge, 
should long since have swung in the wind at 
Execution Dock. What brought you ? Why did 
you open my door while I slept to such a companion ? 
Christopher French, I have two treasures. One 
(laying his hand on Arethusa's shoulder) I know 
you covet : Christopher, is this your love ? 

Kit. Sir, I have been fooled and trapped. That 
man declared he knew you, declared he could make 
you change your mind about our marriage. I was 
drunk, sir, and I believed him : heaven knows I am 
sober now, and can see my folly ; but I believed him 
238 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

then, and followed him. He brought me here, he HI 
told me your chest was full of gold that would make g^^ ^ 
men of us for life. At that I saw my fault, sir, and 
drew my cutlass ; and he, in the wink of an eye, 
roared out for help, leaped at my throat like a weasel 
and had me rolling on the floor. He was quick, and 
I, as I tell you, sir, was off my balance. 

Gaunt. Is this man. Pew, your enemy ? 

Kit. No, sir ; I never saw him till to-night. 

Gaunt. Then, if you must stand the justice of 
your country, come to the proof with a better plea. 
What ! lantern and cutlass yours ; you the one that 
knew the house ; you the one that saw ; you the one 
overtaken and denounced ; and you spin me a galley 
yarn like that ? If that is all your defence, you'll 
hang, sir, hang. 

Arethusa. Ah ! . . . Father, I give him up : I 
will never see him, never speak to him, never think 
of him again ; I take him from my heart ; I give 
myself wholly up to you and to my mother ; I will 
obey you in every point — O, not at a word merely — at 
a finger raised ! I will do all this ; 1 will do anything 
— anything you bid me ; I swear it in the face of 
heaven. Only — Kit ! I love him, father, I love him. 
Let him go. 

[Gaunt. Go ? 

Arethusa. You let the other. Open the door 
again — for my sake, father — in my mother's name — 
O, open the door and let him go.] 

239 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

III Kit. Let me go ? My girl, if you had cast me out 

Sc A ^^'^ morning, good and well : I would have left you, 
though it broke my heart. But it's a changed story 
now ; now I'm down on my luck, and you come and 
stab me from behind. I ask no favour, and I'll take 
none ; I stand here on my innocence, and God 
helping me I'll clear my good name, and get your 
love again, if it's love worth having. [Now, Captain 
Gaunt, I've said my say, and you may do your 
pleasure. 1 am my father's son, and I never feared 
to face the truth. 

Gaunt. You have spoken like a man, French, and 
you may go. I leave you free. 

Kit. Nay, sir, not so : not with my will. I'm 
accused and counted guilty ; the proofs are against 
me ; the girl I love has turned upon me. I'll accept 
no mercy at your hands.] Captain Gaunt, I am your 
prisoner. 

Arethusa. Kit, dear Kit 

Gaunt. Silence ! Young man, I have offered you 
liberty without bond or condition. You refuse. You 
shall be judged. Meanwhile {opoiing the door, R.), 
you will go in here. I keep your cutlass. The night 
brings counsel : to-morrow shall decide. {He locks 
Kit in, leaving the key in the door.) 



240 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

SCENE V 
Gaunt, Arethusa, afterwards Pew yjj 

Arethusa. Father, you believe in him ; you do ; Sc. 5 
I know you do. 

Gaunt. Child, I am not given to be hasty. I will 
pray and sleep upon this matter. (^ knocking at tJie 
door, C.) Who knocks so late ? [He opens.) 

Pew (entering). Cap'n, shall I fetch the constable ? 

Gaunt. No. 

Pew. No ? Have ye killed him ? 

Gaunt. My man, I'll see you into the road. [He 
takes Pew by the artn, and goes out with him.) 

SCENE VI 

Arethusa 

Arethusa. {Listens ; then rtmning to door R.) c^ g 
Kit — dearest Kit ! wait ! I will come to you soon. 
(Gaunt re-enters, C, as the drop falls.) 



241 



ACT IV 

The Stage represents the AdmiraPs house, as in Acts I. and III. 

A chair., Z.., in/ront. As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark. 

Enter Arethusa, L., ivith candle; she lights another; 

and passes to door, K,, ■zuhich she unbolts. Stage light 

SCENE I 
Arethusa, Kit 

IV 

Cp J Arethusa. Come, dear Kit, come ! 

Kit. Well, I'm here. 

Arethusa. O Kit, you are not angry with me ? 

Kit. Have I reason to be pleased ? 

Arethusa. Kit, I was wrong. Forgive me. 

Kit. O yes. I forgive you. I suppose you meant 
it kindly ; but there are some kindnesses a man would 
rather die than take a gift of. When a man is accused, 
Arethusa, it is not that he fears the gallows — it's the 
shame that cuts him. At such a time as that, the 
way to help was to stand to your belief. You should 
have nailed my colours to the mast, not spoke of 
striking them. If I were to be hanged to-morrow, 
and your love there, and a free pardon and a duke- 
dom on the other side — which would I choose ? 
242 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Arethusa. Kit, you must judge me fairly. It was I V 
not my life that was at stake, it was yours. Had it g^^ j 
been mine — mine, Kit — what had you done, then ? 

Kit. I am a downright fool ; I saw it inside out. 
Why, give you up, by George ! 

Arethusa. Ah, you see ! Now you understand. 
It was all pure love. When he said that word — O !— 
death and that disgrace ! . . . But I know my father. 
He fears nothing so much as the goodness of his 
heart ; and yet it conquers. He would pray, he said ; 
and to-night, and by the kindness of his voice, I knew 
he was convinced already. All that is wanted, is that 
you should forgive me. 

Kit. Arethusa, if you looked at me like that I'd 
forgive you piracy on the high seas. I was only 
sulky ; I was boxed up there in the black dark, and 
couldn't see my hand. It made me pity that blind 
man, by George ! 

Arethusa. O, that blind man ! The fiend ! He 
came back. Kit : did you hear him ? he thought we 
had killed you — you ! 

Kit. Well, well, it serves me right for keeping com- 
pany with such a swab. 

Arethusa. One thing puzzles me : how did you 
get in ? I saw my father lock the door. 

Kit. Ah, how ? That's just it. I was a sheet in 
the wind, you see. How did we ? He did it some- 
how. ... By George, he had a key ! He can get in 
again. 

243 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

IV Arethusa. Again? that man ! 

Cp J Kit. Ay, can he ! Again! When he likes ! 

Arethusa. Kit, I am afraid. O Kit, he will kill 
my father. 

Kit. Afraid. I'm glad of that. Now, you'll see 
I'm worth my salt at something. Ten to one he's 
back to Mrs. Drake's. I'll after, and lay him 
aboard. 

Arethusa. O Kit, he is too strong for you. 

Kit. Arethusa, that's below the belt ! Never you 
fear ; I'll give a good account of him. 

Arethusa {taking cutlass from the wall). You'll 
be none the worse for this, dear. 

Kit. That's so {making cuts). All the same, I'm 
half ashamed to draw on a blind man ; it's too much 
odds. {He leans suddenly against the table.) Ah! 

Arethusa. Kit ! Are you ill ? 

Kit. My head's like a humming top ; it serves me 
right for drinking. 

Arethusa. O, and the blind man ! {She runs, L., 
to the corner cupboard, brings a bottle and glass, and 
fills and offers glass.) Here, lad, drink that. 

Kit. To you! That's better. {Bottle and glass 
remain on GaunPs table.) 

Arethusa. Suppose you miss him ? 

Kit. Miss him ! The road is straight ; and I can 
hear the tap-tapping of that stick a mile away. 

Arethusa {listening). St! my father stirring in 
his room ! 
244 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Kit. Let me get clear ; tell him why when I'm IV 
gone. The door ? g^ j 

Arethusa. Locked ! 

Kit. The window ! 

Arethusa. Quick, quick. {She unfastens R. win- 
dow, by which Kit^^^'j- out.) 

SCENE II 
Arethusa, Gaunt entering L. 

Arethusa. Father, Kit is gone. . . . He is asleep. Sc. 2 

Gaunt. Waiting, waiting and wedirying. The 
years, they go so heavily, my Hester still waiting ! 
{He goes R. to chest, which he ope7is.) That is your 
chain ; it's of Guinea gold ; I brought it you from 
Guinea. ( Taking out chain.) You liked it once ; it 
pleased you long ago ; O, why not now — why will 
you not be happy now ? . . . I swear this is my last 
voyage ; see, I lay my hand upon the Holy Book 
and swear it. One more venture — for the child's 
sake, Hester ; you don't think upon your little maid. 

Arethusa. Ah, for my sake, it was for my sake ! 

Gaunt. Ten days out from Lagos. That's a 
strange sunset, Mr. Yeo. All hands shorten sail! 
Lay aloft there, look smart ! . . . What's that ? 
Only the negroes in the hold. . . . Mr. Yeo, she 
can't live long at this ; I have a wife and child in 
Barnstaple. . . . Christ, v.-hat a sea ! Hold on, for 
God's sake —hold on fore and aft ! Great God ! {as 

245 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

IV thongh I he sea were making a breach over the ship at 
Cp 2 i^^^ momeiii). 

Arethusa. O ! 

Gaunt. They seem quieter down below there. . . . 
No water — no light— no air — seven days battened 
down, and the seas mountain high, and the ship 
labouring hell-deep ! Two hundred and five, two 
hundred and five, two hundred and five — all to 
eternal torture ! 

Arethusa. O pity him, pity him ! Let him sleep, 
let him forget ! Let her prayers avail in heaven, 
and let him rest ! 

Gaunt. Hester, no, don't smile at me. Rather 
tears ! I have seen you weep — often, often ; two 
hundred and five times. Two hundred and five ! 
( With ring.) Hester, here is your ring {he tries to 
put the ring on his finger). How comes it in my 
hand ? Not fallen off again ? O no, impossible ! it 
was made smaller, dear, it can't have fallen off ! Ah, 
you waste away. You must live, you must, for the 
dear child's sake, for mine, Hester, for mine ! Ah, 
the child. Yes. Who am I to judge ? Poor Kit 
French ! And she, your little maid, she's like you, 
Hester, and she will save him ! How should a man 
be saved without a wife ? 

Arethusa. O father, if you could but hear me 
thank and bless you ! { The tapping of Pew's stick 
is heard approaching. Gauht passes L. front and 
sits.) 
246 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

Gaunt {beghmittg to count tJw taps). One — two IV 
— two hundred and five Sc. 2 

Arethusa {listening). God help me, the blind 
man ! {She runs to door, C. ; the key is put into the 
lock from ivithozit, and the door opens.) 

SCENE III 

Arethusa {at back of stage by the door) ; Gaunt 
{front L.) ; to these, Pew, C. 

Pew {sotto voce). All snug. {Coming down.) So 3q^ •j 
that was you, my young friend Christopher, as shot 
by me on the road ; and so you was hot foot after old 
Pew ? Christopher, my young friend, I reckon I'll 
have the bowels out of that chest, and I reckon you'll 
be lagged and scragged for it. {At these words 
Arethusa locks the door, and takes the key.) What's 
that ? All still. There's something wrong about 
this room. Pew, my 'art of oak, you're queer to- 
night ; brace up, and carry on. Where's the tool ? 
{Producing knife.) Ah, here she is ; and now for the 
chest ; and the gold ; and rum — rum — rum. What ! 
Open ? . . . old clothes, by God ! . . . He's done 
me ; he's been before me ; he's bolted with the 
swag ; that's why he ran : Lord wither and waste 
him forty year for it ! O Christopher, if I had my 
fingers on your throat ! Why didn't I strangle the 
soul out of him ? I heard the breath squeak in his 
weasand ; and Jack Gaunt pulled me off. Ah, Jack, 

247 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

IV that's another I owe you. My pious friend, if I was 
Sc. "Z ^^"^ Almighty for five minutes ! (GAUNT rises and 
begins to pace the stage like a qtiarterdeck, L.) 
What's that ? A man's walk. He don't see me, 
thank the blessed dark ! But it's time to slip, my 
bo. (//<? gropes his way stealthily till he comes to 
Gaunfs table, where he burns his hand in the 
candle.) A candle — lighted — then it's bright as day ! 
Lord God, doesn't he see me ? It's the horrors come 
alive. (Gaunt draws near and turns away.) I'll 
go mad, mad ! {He gropes to the door, stopping and 
starting.) Door. {His voice rising for the first 
time, sharp with terror.) Locked ? Key gone ? 
Trapped ! Keep off — keep off of me — keep away ! 
[Sotto voce again.) Keep your head. Lord have 
mercy, keep your head. I'm wet with sweat. What 
devil's den is this ? I must out — out ! {He shakes 
the door vehemently.) No ? Knife it is then — knife 
— knife — knife ! {He moves with the knife raised 
towards Gaunt, intently listening and changing his 
direction as Gaunt changes his position on the 
stage.) 

Arethusa {rtishing to intercept him). Father, 
father, wake ! 

Gaunt. Hester, Hester ! {He turns, in time to see. 
Arethvs A grapple Pew in the cetitre of the Stage, 
and V'£^N force her down.) 

Arethusa. Kit! Kit! 

Pew {with the knife raised). Pew's way ! 
248 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

SCENE IV 

To these, Kit JY 

{He leaps through window R., and c tits Pew down. Sc. 4 
At the satne motnent. Gaunt, who has been 
staring helplessly at his daughter'' s peril, fully 
awakes.) 

Gaunt. Death and blood ! (Kit, helping 
Arethusa, has let fall the cutlass. Gaunt picks it 
up and runs on Pew.) Damned mutineer, I'll have 
your heart out ! {He stops, stands staring, drops 
cutlass, falls upon his knees.) God forgive me ! Ah, 
foul sins, would you blaze forth again? Lord, close 
your ears ! Hester, Hester, hear me not ! Shall all 
these years and tears be unavailing ? 

Arethusa. Father, I am not hurt. 

Gaunt. Ay, daughter, but my soul — my lost soul! 

Pew {rising on his elbow). Rum ? You've done 
me. For God's sake, rum. {kKKinvSiA. pours out a 
glass, which Kit gives to hitn.) Rum ? This ain't 
rum ; it's fire ! ( With great excitement.) What's 
this ? I don't like rum ? {Feebly.) Ay, then, I'm 
a dead man, and give me water. 

Gaunt. Now even his sins desert him. 

Pew {drinking water). Jack Gaunt, you've always 
been my rock ahead. It's thanks to you I've got 
my papers, and this time I'm shipped for Fiddler's 
Green. Admiral, we ain't like to meet again, and I'll 

249 



ADMIRAL GUINEA 

IV give you a toast : Here's Fiddler's Green, and 
Sc J. damn all lubbers ! {Seizing Gaunt'S arm.) I say 
— fair dealings, Jack ! — none of that heaven business : 
Fiddler's Green's my port, now, ain't it ? 

Gaunt. David, you've hove short up, and God 
forbid that I deceive you. Pray, man, pray ; for in 
the place to which you are bound there is no mercy 
and no hope. 

Pew. Ay, my lass, you're black, but your blood's 
red, and I'm all a-muck with it. Pass the rum, and 
be damned to you. {Trying to sing) — 

' Time for us to go. 
Time for us ' 

{He dies.) 

Gaunt. But for the grace of God, there lies John 
Gaunt ! Christopher, you have saved my child ; and 
I, I, that was blinded with self-righteousness, have 
fallen. Take her, Christopher ; but O, walk humbly ! 



CURTAIN 



250 



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Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: April 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 



